All the world is a stage and I am a one-man comedy act.
“Be funny!” the people shout. “Dance for us! Tell us some jokes!”
“We like you,” they smile and say, “You make us laugh. Do it again.”

Those on the front row sometimes pat my back or shake my hand after a show. They act like we’re old friends.

Sometimes I get caught up in their play. I smile back and share private jokes. I move to embrace…but they aren’t looking at me. They are looking past me, behind me, through me. Who’s that? I turn around. The next act is here. It is a romantic comedy. Funny and handsome. Why would they want a silly stand-up like me.

I am trampled, under the many feet of my audience. On my birthday.

As I lay there in the mud, bruised and bloodied my eyes begin to clear, but the cold knife of loneliness twists in my belly. I hug myself, clutching my sides I won’t let go. I won’t let go.

Isn’t this funny? Even in my sorrow I am corny and cliché. How unoriginal! “The cold knife of loneliness”? Who writes this stuff? That really gets my goat.

I swallow my pride and get back up. I swallow my root beer and sit back down. It doesn’t matter, I tell myself, that they care so little. I shouldn’t have expected them to. I don’t need them to.

I am not what I say.
I am not where I am.
I am not who I am with.

I am not my jokes.
I am not my words.
I am not my works.

I am not here, nor there, nor anywhere.

I am not your friend.

I am not the sum of these things.

I do not know what I am.
I am not.
I choose not to be.