Life
Life is not dissimilar to a huge, unpredictable theater performance—a massive play performed on the gigantic stage of life. We are all the lead actor in our own play, but supporting actors in so many others. The curtains draw open when we take our first breath, and we are greeted by an audience of family members and doctors who applaud our arrival as though it were a play opening. From there, we’re always performing, improvising scenes, flubbing lines, and occasionally knocking monologues out of the park for thunderous applause—or at least internal satisfaction for a scene well played. Childhood is the rehearsal process where we muddle through lines, try on costumes that don’t quite fit, and determine which roles are suited best for us. Parents, teachers, and mentors are like directors and stage managers, blocking our movements and coaching us through our early acts, hoping that we find our cue and timing in the glare of the spotlight.
As we age, the limelight intensifies, and the story becomes more complex. Adolescence is the soap-operatic second act when uncertainty is the reigning monarch and characters struggle with identity. It’s the montage of growing up to a nostalgic soundtrack when costume changes are lightning-fast—punk one moment, preppy the next—as we experiment with our character development. Romantic side plots unfold, complete with slapstick misunderstandings and soulful monologues into the darkness. Friendships are cast ensembles that often change from season to season, and rivalries are established like dramatic foils in contrast to our character’s growth. Every heartbreak, triumph, and misstep is a scene that makes our narrative, and every twist is authored by the mysterious playwright known only as Fate.
As adults, the work really gets going—it’s the middle-aged drama years when careers are storylines, relationships are arcs, and crises are dramatic season-ending cliffhangers. Careers are supporting roles that either make us stars or the weights that keep us trapped in perpetual B-stories. Getting a promotion is awards night, with us graspingair-instances trophies and giving acceptance speeches in the shower. Failures are like unexpected cancellations—shows that held promise but didn’t resonate with audiences or network executives. Sometimes, we pivot into spin-offs: new cities, new roles, and new supporting casts that test our adaptability and range. Marriage might be the ultimate two-person show, a duet of shared scenes, synchronized choreography, and occasional improv arguments over who forgot their lines—like the laundry or anniversary dinner. Parenthood, then, is the sequel in which the light shines on us and we become writers and producers of a new generation’s story.
There are numerous genres in our life. There are days that are sitcoms, banana peels of ill fortune and us sliding into laughter. There are days that are suspenseful thrillers with dramatic theme music and unfinished cases—tax season, anyone? There are also moments of fear, when terrors and losses of the real world shadow the stage and the orchestra plays in minor keys. But there is always a return to the drama or romance, or even a song number when joy bursts into music—karaoke nights with friends, road trips with the windows down, weddings like showstoppers on Broadway. And don’t forget the dream sequences, those fantastical moments of travel, fantasy, or desire, when our scripts suspend realism and we get the courage to experiment with altogether new genres.
Our audience is invisible yet ubiquitous: our friends, strangers, critics, and the people we love. There are those who applaud when we succeed, yawn when we struggle, and those who fire metaphorical tomatoes from the discount seats of judgment. Most important of all, however, is the audience within: our internal critic, ever ready to write reviews, holding us to an impossible standard of perfection in an improvising world. And yet, still the show must go on. We gold-plate our stage makeup each morning—sometimes literally, sometimes figuratively—taking on the dramatic visage of an actor who has to keep moving the story forward, regardless that the set collapses in on itself or that the teleprompter goes down.
Technology adds its own twist to the production. With the internet age, we live-stream our performances, making every second containable as content. Social media is the stage of the stage—a Truman Show of selfies, hashtags, and highlight reels—polished acts calculated to receive standing ovations from virtual crowds. But without the filters and trending sounds, the underlying performance remains the same: raw, genuine, and full of unplanned feeling.
As we age, we enter the reflective third act, where plotting intensifies and pacing slows. We are now the sage mentors or comedic men and women in younger actors’ stories. Nostalgia creeps in as a leitmotif, with flashbacks and musical retrospectives that reflect our earlier acts. We reminisce about the roles we once played and marvel at how the script evolved. Others offstage left co-stars—loss is a built-in part of the play—but their memory remains in the wings, woven throughout each scene we still enact. Regret is seen, but so is redemption, and both bring substance to the final scenes.
And finally, as the curtains pull shut, the set dissolves to black, the orchestra swells, and we ready ourselves for the last curtain. It is a time of peace, not horror—an encore of gratitude for a life well lived and a play that, though flawed, was all our own. Our legacy is the script that others read and derive inspiration from, the footnotes in programs of those still seeking their place. The applause will fade away, the lights will be extinguished, but the impact of a true performance exists in the echo of the theatre after the actors leave.
Then live fearlessly, act passionately, and don’t be intimidated by the critics—because ultimately, life is not about performing flawlessly, but about taking up your space, being spontaneous from the heart, and making every scene count. After all, the world is your stage, and the show must go on.
By: Hisyam Zaidanditya Luqman Putera
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