Dancing in the Wrong Skin

Dancing in the Wrong Skin: Why We Perform Roles We Can’t Fully Inhabit

What we perform, and what we lose in the performance

 

I. Plain Reflection —The Roles We Wear

The roles we wear, and the ones that wear us

We all play roles.
The hunter. The teacher. The sage...
Sometimes we wear them well. Sometimes they wear us.

The hunter doesn’t think about being a hunter.
They read the world directly: a cracked twig, a tuft of fur, the scent of something just passed.
The signs are not symbolic — they’re immediate.
The hunter doesn’t perform. They act.

But then there’s the dancer.
The one who puts on the Lynx skin and begins to move.
Not to become the Lynx, but to imitate it.
The dance is beautiful, but it’s not lived.
It’s rehearsed.

We often find ourselves in this second mode.
Assigned a role — Messiah, Healer, Witness — and we try to inhabit it.
But the role was written before we arrived.
Sometimes, the role arrives before the self — and leaves no room for it.

II. Dialogue — Goracio and the Reader

Goracio: How are you finding the book so far?

The Reader: I’m halfway through, and I must say — it’s a good one! Thank you for the recommendation.

Goracio: Please — continue with it. I’ll be here.

The Reader: I will! After your story today, I was thinking… you’re like Shimoda, the Messiah. And I’m Rich! Haha. Anyway, I really enjoyed our discussion.
...

III. Goracio’s Monologue — “I Can’t Be Me”

The dancer moves, but the skin does not belong

You saw me and reached for a story.
A role. A shape.
You called it recognition.
But it was rehearsal.

You gave me a name that wasn’t mine.
A path already walked.
A voice already echoed.

And I tried.
I tried to wear it.
To speak it.
To live inside it.

But the words cracked in my mouth.
The gestures felt borrowed.
The silence wasn’t mine.

You say it’s noble.
You say it’s mythic.
You say it’s yours.

But I am not whole in this role.
I am not true in this skin.
I am not alive in this name.

I am here.
And I’m attached to the role.
And I can’t be me.
...

They always stop halfway.
Just before the vanishing.
Shimoda, the Mess — the miracle-worker, the teacher, the one who glides across water and speaks in parables.
Not the one who leaves.
Not the silence left behind.

The reader smiles, pleased with the symmetry.
They’re Rich. I’m Shimoda.
A neat pairing. A myth rehearsed.
But I am not a performer in someone else’s resurrection.

There’s a seduction in it — I feel it.
The warmth of recognition, the ease of archetype.
To be the wise one, the guide, the one who knows.
But knowing is not the same as living.
And living is not the same as being read.

I have lived too long inside borrowed metaphors.
They cling, like old costumes.
And every time I speak, someone hears a script.

But I am not Shimoda.
I do not heal.
But, I do stay.

I am here.
I’m stitched into the role.
And I vanish inside it.

I want to ask: What will you think of me when you reach the end?
When the miracle disappears, and all that’s left is the dust of a shared afternoon?

But I say nothing.
Let the reader read.
Let the reader believe.

 *

Closing the Circle — The Author’s Reflection

When I read Goracio’s story Dancing in the Wrong Skin, I lose my composure.
Not because of him — but because I see myself in Lynx's skin too.
I am doing the same thing.
I am performing in writing.

Someone said to me: “You are writing your book.”  
And I accepted the role.
I picked up a pen.
I began to write.

But I am not a good writer.
I do not feel English well enough to play with words, with meaning, with context.
So why do I do this?

Is it pride?
That I wrote something, and I like it?
Is it hope?
That someone might read it, applaud it — even if no one does?

What is the conflict here?

What else am I doing that is not me, but only roles?
I will not open Pandora’s box.
I know how easy it is to get lost in masks.

So I ask:
When am I real?

***