In the back of your mind you have a storage room. In that room there is a closet full of costumes. They are costumes that you have accumulated over the years. Many, most, are
from your childhood. Some very expensive, others of little value. Some you have shed sweat and tears for, others have been given to you and a few, of consistent and rigid cloth,
have been forced into your closet, violating the lock that kept it closed, for only you have the keys.
Some suits have had lots of use, others little or none. There are many types, for all kinds of situations. There are very happy ones, for party nights. There are solemn ones, for
ceremonies loaded with rigour. Informal ones for days of carefreeness. Sad grey ones. Depressing ones with which to cross the valleys of life. Wild ones for explosions of anger.
Others are miserable, rags of self-contempt ... All with their accessories. Hats made of laughter, scarves out of seduction, flirting bags, superficiality bracelets, addiction chains,
You use them all day after day. There are days in which you wear one or two and on others, you may change clothes up to five times. Over time you have become accustomed
to taking out some suits, with their appropriate accessories, more than others. Some are more comfortable than anything you have already used. Others are no longer attractive to
you and they have been abandoned and are covered with dust. The funny thing is that you also use some accessories to dress the rest of the actors in your life. Not that they've
asked you for it, but they tolerate it because they love you and understand where you come from.
The problem is that, almost unconsciously, you have developed an ugly habit that worries me. You've started dressing the rest of the actors with the costumes of your own choice.
Suits intended only for your own use and choice, now you impose them on others. - "It's my scenario, it's my rules" - you say vehemently.
Before it did not bother you to dye their personality with some dye from your own harvest. They gave up some of their authenticity in exchange for your calmness. But what you are
doing now cannot end well. It is stepping onto your stage and being covered in clothes that do not correspond to the truth, Rather you are forcing them to play a role in a script that
only you write.
They become who you want to see, even if it isn't your intention...
Not all plays are chosen by us. The stories of other stage directors are mixed in with ours. No one is an island. But we all have a perimeter on which we are regents. Lately, almost
every day it rains on the wood of your theatre. You have prioritised some scripts over others. You have dressed the actors in bitter grey mantles. Although they try to escape the
imposed role, your insistence moves them away from you. You are losing the ability to see the reality of all of them. You have covered them with grey their clothes, that shone with
the fidelity of their character, and legitimacy of their own clothes.
They bring to you golden clothes that taste like sunrays with which to sweeten your days, but you transform them into disconsolate crying with rough outfits and, to top it all, you
accuse them of saddening you. They bring you clothes of living pigments that taste like deep joy with which to silence your torments, but you transform them into uncontrolled
anger and, to top it all, you accuse them of hurting your emotions.
The wooden platform of your theatre, stepped on with so many stories full of life, has become the floor of the gallows. The actors who loved you, now enter the scene to die one
by one. Your clothes forced upon them and chosen by yourself has cut off their freedom to love you. And without freedom there is no love. And without love, there is no life. And
without life, there is no ...