“What can we do? We must live our lives. …and when our last hour comes we shall meet it humbly…” The piercing monologue. Is life truly tedious existence and senseless business?
Should one live by mirages only, if real life is too lacking? Is faith all that one needs in moments of despair?
Outside looking in. You see a different play every day. It is not your play, not your mumbling words to utter or your hands to move, not your days to fill, not your place to be in shallow thought or feelings, and not your battle to fight. You try hard to be a gentle observer with a genial smile and, even better, curious, innocent eyes. Sometimes, you burst into laughters or tears; sometimes, you agonize, then perhaps a sigh of relief; other times, a casual poke at this person sitting next to you. After all, you are in the audience.
Oh, here is a character who looks familiar. She lost her beloved family and gave in to petty side quests in life. He was in a race against time, a race he could hardly seem to get out of. You are intrigued. You are applauding. Before you know it, you are mad. Hold on a second. Are plots ringing a bell? They were in a play you wrote, a story you carefully constructed.
Everything is intertwined; nothing is relevant. You start waving a brochure (if only there were a flag instead) to be seen and heard because notice usually comes very easily for you. An obnoxious scene makes you queasy. You stood up, getting water. “I’m sorry. Water is sold out, but we have soda of all sorts.” “I’m not intervening, not jumping onto the stage, but you know, I was once a playwright, an actor, a singer, talented…”
And before the drama could unfold further, your reckless acts get you nowhere and lead to minor chaos amongst the crowds.
Compassion overflows in those who dedicate their lives to equally meaningful and meaningless work. God will eventually have mercy on them. In a world of dandies and darlings, compassion falls short for those who have always had their ways. May they be given a lesson sooner than they ought to be.
I didn’t know you, Uncle Vanya. But I know you now. To Chekhov.
