On the cusp of another life revolution around the sun–one cannot help but be grateful for more time to unpack the performer.

Performance, “the action or process of carrying out or accomplishing an action, task, or function.” Reflecting on how we’re molded throughout life to be and become.

Then, we get a taste of the flavor called liberation—the tingling spice of unpacking—and fulfill the quench of navigating authenticity. Like the cycle of eating for nourishment or delight, it can become addicting.

But… it hurts our performance. Running to outlive your past, the person you developed into for safety or acquisition, or the person you thought you wanted to be, is a stage at first. Then it comes in stages, sometimes hitting you like waves.

In it, the only regards for people may be: staying out of your way, allowing you to be, or simply not limiting you to what you’ve outgrown.

The performance.

The one thing you let go.

Character.

Someone you thought you were. Or had to be.

The wild side. Danger. Thrill. Sensation.

Of what they saw, connected with, supported, hated, degraded.

Is no longer you.

Safety is in the silence. Of not having to be scripted. Staged for safety. Better yet existing in societal norms.

Damn patriarchy. F*ck racism. Bury homophobia. Ugh to popular culture. And academia. Don’t forget etiquette. No religion.

All key performance indicators of how well you ascertain.

Give me nature. Winds and rain. Water and earth. Sounds of birds and hops of bunnies. The liberated, non-performing peace of existence.

That’s it. Existence. Free-flowing. Unhinged. Not restricted, navigation of life.

But we never want that. So back to performance, I reckon?

Image by freepik