He arrives at the theatre: another night, another performance. The audience love him. Night after night, they love him. He dances, illuminated by the footlights, clinging onto the big break that wasn’t quite big enough, but it won’t get any bigger for him, not now.

He knows just what to do to keep them loving him, but he is tired. His body is weary, worn out from years on the stage, rehearsing scripts; has had to work so hard. There is no rest for the performer; blink and another will step into his spotlight. That knowledge drives him, harder and harder. There is no other life. There is no other way. What would he do if he did not do this, over and over?

There is no one to go home to. Well, there is his family, but they do not understand. They were not bitten by the same bug that writhes inside his body, screaming don’t stop, it is not enough. He envies them. How pleasant it must be to live a life that is not propped up by applause, the desperate desire, the insatiable thirst.

So, he steps on stage, again and again, and the voices that scream his name get older as the years pass; dried, cracked voices still calling for him. It is OK; they still love him. He smiles as he falls asleep at night.

But his dreams are tangled, always chasing, never resting. Lines he has learned swim around as his subconscious tries to make sense of such an unnatural life. We are not meant to perform, not meant to be looked at. And somewhere, deep down, he knows this. His soul is unbalanced.

He dreams of sequins and his top hat and his next routine. But something is changing. Deep inside something is changing. Something is pulling loose, and he feels it, upon waking; he is different.

He sits up in bed, looking left and right. He tilts his head to the side, listening. The house is still the same; the tiny creaks and groans of pressure on bricks and floorboards just as they always are. His wife still sleeps beside him. So, what is different?

He feels empty, but not unpleasantly so. He should get up to go to work but finds he doesn’t want to. The desire, where is it? The pulsing energy that has dictated his every living moment is not there.
He rubs his hands together, trying to ignite it. But no, there is no spark, and he finds he does not care. He does not feel, and if anything, it is a relief. Does this mean he is free? He breathes in slowly and deeply, wondering what to do next.

There is a numbness inside him, a blankness. Is this what it is like for other people? It is nice. There is such relief without feeling. He barely smiles; he has nothing, and he does not mind.

He lies down and closes his eyes.