damakaia

there is a certain kind of person who performs. not for themselves, not even for the person across from them, but for the room. the idea of it. the possibility that someone, somewhere, is watching. they are not people in the traditional sense. they are reactions. reflections. a composite of glances and passing affirmations. they measure their value by how often heads turn, how quickly the professor pauses, how long the silence lasts after their voice has filled it. they sit at the front. always. the jokes come too loud. the laughter comes too fast. it’s not amusement. it’s a signal. look at me. hear me. i am clever. i am interesting. i am here. one of them answers a question. the wrong answer. but with the confidence of someone who has never had to question whether or not they should be speaking. the professor hesitates. corrects gently. not quite, she says. and for a second, no one moves. it is the most honest moment of the hour. then someone coughs. someone laughs. the show resumes....

it is loathsome, to be observed. to be watched, weighed, regarded not as a person but as a point of interest. even in its mildest form — a glance, a question, a piece of small talk — there is pressure. the pressure to reply, to return, to offer something. and worse still: the spotlight. the deliberate moment of being looked at, fixed in place. not because you asked to be, but because it’s been decided for you. because it is time. i have always found it unbearable. and worse than the watching is the ritual that follows. the birthday. the promotion. the graduation. a cake appears. someone makes a speech. people laugh too loudly at nothing. you are meant to stand there. to nod. to be pleased. the affection arrives, prepackaged, awkward. it is a gesture, not a feeling. and what, exactly, are we meant to feel? the ritual seems designed to prove something. i exist, therefore i must be acknowledged. i have achieved this, therefore i must be clapped for. it all feels circular. i detest it. oth...