Writings

"Actage"

Do you hear it?

That low hum beneath the noise of the world — the tremor between heartbeats, the static crackle when the night folds over itself like an old curtain.

That sound is not the wind.

It’s the orchestra of stories, tuning their strings, waiting for the next scene. And tonight, I am their instrument.

This text — no, this soliloquy — is not a confession. It is a fever dream. A prayer to the gods of fiction, to the saints of the stage, to the ghosts that live between frames and syllables.

To her — Kei Yonagi — the phantom flame around which my universe orbits.

To you — voyeurs and dreamers who understand the ache of loving the unreal.

And to me — the actor, the director, the fool behind the curtain.

I have always been a worshipper. Not of gods or saints or prophets, but of flickering screens, cracked stages, scripts, annotated with sweat and blood. I fell in love young — not with people, but with scenes.

With the weight of a camera sliding into place like a blade drawn from a sheath. With the way light fractures over an actor’s face and turns pain into poetry. With the choreography of words, the architecture of dialogue. The sacred violence of a story that knows it's tearing you apart and does it anyway.

I learned early that the most honest things in this world were the lies we crafted together in the dark — cinema, theatre, storytelling — a dance of ghosts pretending to be human.

And in that theatre of masks and mirrors, I found her.

Kei Yonagi. Not a name — a constellation. A collision of stars and sorrow and devotion, burning too bright to touch.

She is not "just" a character. She is the breath between cuts, the blood in the ink, the scream trapped beneath the applause.

She is what happens when art becomes an act of violence — when you rip yourself open and let the world crawl inside. When she acts, she disappears so fully, so violently, that the boundary between her and her roles collapses like a dying star.

And when I watch her — when I see her fracture and burn and rebuild herself again and again — I do not merely watch a character. I watch the universe remembering itself.

Loving her is not separate from loving art. She is not the muse at the edge of the canvas. She is the canvas, the paint, the trembling hand that cannot stop creating even when it hurts.

Because it’s not just her I am in love with. It’s the entire machinery of storytelling — the scaffolding of narrative, the electric pulse of a camera rolling, the violence of a well-written line slicing through your chest at the exact right moment.

I love the syntax of suffering, the grammar of longing, the choreography of collapse and rebirth. I love the way a story is a battlefield where no one survives but everyone is transformed.

And Kei is the living embodiment of that war.

Through her, I learned that the act of becoming is the act of dying — that to perform is to peel your skin off, layer by layer, until nothing is left but the raw, naked pulse of what you could be.

And isn’t that what we’re all doing? Every day, even when we pretend otherwise?

Acting. Performing. Begging the world to look at us and say: "Yes, you are real."

But let me be honest.

This is not just about her. This is not just about the stories or the lights or the scripts.

This is about me.

The director behind the lens. The playwright scribbling frantically at 3 AM, trying to stitch meaning into the void. The actor backstage, smearing paint over their face and whispering, "Tonight, I will be someone."

Because loving her — loving art — is the only way I’ve ever known how to live.

I do not know how to exist without narrative. Without tropes, without monologues, without the architecture of meaning built frame by frame, shot by shot.

I do not know how to breathe without turning my breath into dialogue. How to live without staging my own existence.

Every heartbeat is a camera shutter. Every tear is a line break. Every night I fall asleep, I hear the echo of a director’s voice whispering, "Cut. Try again."

They tell me it’s dangerous to fall in love with fiction. To lose yourself in the masks you wear. To give your heart to someone who cannot reach back.

But they don’t understand. The danger is not in falling. The danger is in never knowing how high you could have flown. The danger is living a life without the symphony of stories, without the agony and ecstasy of becoming.

When I love her, when I love cinema, theatre, narrative, performance —

I am not escaping. I am ascending.

I am an actor. I am a director. I am the script and the stage and the camera and the cut. I am the applause and the silence that follows. I am the fiction that bleeds into reality until there is no difference anymore.

So now —

To you, dear reader. To you, Kei, my flame on celluloid. To you, fractured self still rehearsing lines in the dark.

Listen carefully.

The audience is waiting. The lights are dimming. The world is holding its breath.
And here — right here, in this trembling moment between heartbeat and silence —

The curtain rises. The act begins.
And everything that was ever real,
was fiction first."