In Continuum.

Killing Off a Poet

Leonard Woolf,"Why does someone has to die?"
Virginia Woolf,"Leonard?"
Leonard Woolf,"In your book,you said someone has to die."
Virginia Woolf,"Mmm-hmm."
Leonard Woolf,"Why?Was that a stupid question?"
Virginia Woolf,"No."
Leonard Woolf,"I imagine my question to be stupid."
Virginia Woolf,"Not at all."
Leonard Woolf,"Well?"
Virginia Woolf,"Someone has to die in order that the rest of us should value life more. It's contrast."
Leonard Woolf,"And who will die?Tell me."
Virginia Woolf,"The poet will die.The visionary."

We are all writers of our lives,authors of our destiny,historians of our own future.Quoting Ahmad's ridiculous line,"I choose,by choice,of choosing the chosen choices choicingly".In a nutshell,it means that the choices we make in life,the ones that matter,they are really up to us,and the consequences are the burden we have to bear afterwards.

People that appear in your lives,the ones that make impressions.They are like characters,arent they?Strolling in the plot you've written,the ultimate play for the opening night,every night.The people are like characters,the forgettable ones are props.They fill your stage with items,and you are the main character,the writer of the screenplay,and most of all the director of this whole play itself.You,then,have the power to decide who gets to live in this play,who gets to kill somebody else in this play,and ultimately who gets to die,in this play.The play of life.

Being a writer,myself,both figuratively and literally,i understand the importance of character development,even if you decide to get rid of this character in the next chapter.You cannot build up the hype for this character,create a bond for this character between him and yourself,then get rid of him in the next page by saying,"This character from this page henceforth,is dead".You cannot do that,to any character,no matter how hateful,how sinful,how utterly fucked up he is.Because you dont do that in a plot,a good plot,a brilliant play,especially when the play you are writing is life,itself.

Wasnt i a character in your play as well,somebody introduced not too long ago?Being the main character of this play,the dancer,the princess,your characters seem to be strangely attracted to you.This one character,the poet,articulate and musically inclined,had all the connections in the world detached in order to feel connected only to you.Didnt the poet give his all,to write the perfect poem,the most dramatic poem of all,for you because he desired you,because he longed for you,because he,loved you?

How could you,then,cancel him off the script like that.How could you,with a rip of the pages,remove this character from your plot,thinking that hopefully the actor wouldnt know that the poet has been removed from the play altogether?

Everyday,you live your life the way you usually do.Being the director of the play,you arrive at the theatre promptly for rehearsals,and ultimately the show.New characters and new props arrive everyday,and this character whom you kicked off the play remains outside the theatre,desperate to enter so bad.Being without a role,not being the poet anymore,being killed off by the screen writer,you wander the streets alone at night,filling yourself with pints after pints of beer,thinking what he did wrong in his role during the rehearsals.He couldnt think of anything wrong,any steps he missed or any lines he forgot,because he memorized them all so well.

He wants to ask the director,why he was killed by the princess in the story,why he was left out of the rest of the story,despite him being such a pivotal role in the story,for a moment anyway.He wanted to,as he paced back and forth outside the gate of the theatre.But the director never came out,and he never got in.Through the gaps between the doors,he could see the bright lights from the stage,the props and all the characters,new and old.He sees the princess in her dancing dress,graceful as she danced across the stage.She had a new character,a boy,an ordinary boy from the streets.He wanted to ask her,what he did wrong,what he did wrong,but the play was going on,and the audience was laughing.They couldnt stop laughing,she couldnt stop dancing,he couldnt stop asking.

It is so easy,isnt it.To leave me out of your life,our of your picture,out of your play,out of your film.It is so easy,isnt it.To cut me loose,to leave me hanging on a hook behind your door,like a forgotten wardrobe.It is so easy,isnt it.To kill off the character,the boy,the actor,the poet.

How do you live with yourself,dancing upon your stage in that dancing dress.How do you feel,when from where you are,you see the shadow at the doors.You see from under the doors,where the lights creep in from the gap,you see a curious shadow wandering back and forth.You recognise the shadow,you recognise it to be you.You know that you never gave a good explanation as to why the poet disappeared from your play.The audience never minded the absence,surely the boy from the streets couldnt care less.But you had a responsibility,didnt you?You ought to have had an explanation,because everything just has to have one.

Or is it because,somebody always have to die in a story?

Was i dispensable to you?How cheap was i to you,when you hired me.When i turned up for the audition?Just what am i to you,tell me princess true.I am shouting over the orchestra,can you hear?Through the gap,above the music and the laughter,can you hear the sound?

It is so easy,isnt it.To kill the poet.It is so easy,because after all,choices are up to you.You are the director,the screenwriter,the actress,the dancer,the princess,the boss.I was the boy,the actor,the poet.