All the World's a Stage...

I last left you folks with promises of being more open, more public, and more available, only to have acted in quite the opposite manner. Rather than becoming an open book for you, it would seem that I have taken cover.  The biggest factor in my disappearance, I haven’t been in the mood to write.  Actually I have, but either I hated almost everything I wrote or I didn’t feel it merited the time being typed.  (Yes, I still pen and paper things, it’s my preferred method!)
            Aside from those excuses, I’m quite terrible at being open.  Not only that, but I find that more and more, I detest the audience.  Contrary to what the once pink hair might have shouted from a distance, I dislike attention.  Ok, it’s more like I  am horrified of the audience.  Attention, from an audience?!  What a loathsome and horrendous concept!  An audience, full of individuals all with their own thoughts and opinions, some at all shy about making their ideas known, even at the expense of the protagonists feelings! Wretched and terrifying indeed, and that is to say the least! 

            This disdain for the public seems rather recent. Years go I was utterly unmoved by the audience.  I lcared little for what they thought of me, my writing, my looks, my ideas!  I naively thought such things as “Who were they to judge?” or even “So what? Who cares what they think? Who are they?!”  Back then, I would write freely, for hours, I would draw, I would dress in colors that were never destined to be together and prints that should surely never meet.  “Let them give me their opinions, I’ll be sure to give them mine back!” I said to myself if I saw an disapproving eye or heard a snide remark.

            Time changes things, or so the cliché says! How true! Now I’m so petrified of the audience that they exist with their opinions even in my most private of places.  Simple things such as choosing a word lead me to question why I chose that word,  to eventually such thoughts of my sentence structure, and the strength of the sentence itself.  To the lines on a picture being straight, to it being good enough, even if no one will ever see it! The thought of what other people will think comes into my head immediately after an idea has been conceived in my mind and instantaneously aborts the production. This pseudo audience is critical and expects nothing but the very best out of me at that exact moment. The idea should be golden from the beginning, otherwise, why even bother having the idea!  This scrutiny causes me to second guess myself, triple guess myself, quadruple guess myself till I get to the point where all I want to do is give up, because I know I’ll never make it out alive.

            This evening, I was clearing out some old paperwork. I came across a recommendation letter for my undergraduate NYU application from Frau Boghossian, my old German teacher and possibly one of those most influential teachers in my life.  I had Frau B (as we affectionately referred to her) from 7^th grade to my senior year of High School, if there were a VIP section to my own audience; she was definitely there, in the balcony as I gave my small performances.  Reading this letter, I question who this Eleni she discusses is.  Surely this younger gal and I cannot be the same person.  Frau writes such things as “Eleni is an individual in the true sense of the word.  Whether it is blue hair or her opinion on American foreign policy, she is not afraid to express her views, which she usually supports with good solid arguments” and “Eleni is enthusiastic and eager to learn, and every learning experience seems to open a new door to her, which she investigates and explores.”  Is that even me anymore?   Perhaps it was me.   Perhaps this younger me would have been more adept at finding what I think is “me”, the one I find myself constantly losing!  Perhaps when I was younger, I was just better at faking it, or I had no reason to know otherwise, I hadn’t yet been disillusioned.  Perhaps this persona that I once exuded is a part of me but I just can’t seem to hold on to it.  After all it was my fear of the audience that kept me from ever mailing in the application for NYU.  I couldn’t think of a thing to write and I was too afraid to read their critique.