The Café de la Comédie: Choosing the Unchosen
In Paris, there is a café with a patio, where you may sit. At first, just to watch— then, without notice, you slip into the act.
The thrill of switching:
spectator to actor, back and forth.
A smile, a glance,
a gesture rehearsed
as if it were yours to give.
Spectactor sits at the edge of the patio, watching the quiet theater of Paris unfold. No lines to memorize, no costume to define him—only the city, playing itself. His acting role, like ours, defies description. We all wear masks.
You think you choose it. Control tastes sharp and clever. Imagination folds itself into certainty.
But the scene casts without consent. The surrounding selects your role. It speaks through silence and setting, and often you do not hear it.
You sit, sipping something small, believing you are in control. But the café keeps its script hidden beneath the tablecloth of your confidence.
Fewer than few rise to claim the part.
Fewer still rewrite it.
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