A few days back, or yesterday, or possibly months ago, an innocuous 21-point post by @ImtiazMadmood on Twitter (I still refuse to call it X; letters deserve lineage) pushed me into an unexpected inner tailspin. Not a breakdown. Not enlightenment either. More like a hop-on, hop-off ride through my own inner theatre, which at 62 is not a destination I visit lightly.
Most of my life has been spent understanding others as a marketing professional, but also as a friend, a family member, and an observer of people’s little hypocrisies and heroic self-deceptions. I once attempted Vipassana and escaped around Day Six or Seven. Too silent. Too honest. Worse than the anxiety I had before fire-walking years ago. This episode required no monastery. Just one line that stuck: When one door closes, and another opens, you are probably in prison.
That line flung open every door.
Memories stormed the inner theatre through a revolving entrance; the acts of innocence, calculated sins, moments of courage, convenient silences; each demanding reinterpretation from a new, less charitable angle. I tried to focus on the present version of myself and failed to recognise the man staring back. For a moment, I considered shutting the lid and pretending none of this was happening, which is a perfectly adult response.
Then another line surfaced: Don’t bother walking a mile in my shoes. That would be boring. Spend 30 seconds in my head. That’ll freak you right out.
That felt disturbingly accurate.
There I was, sitting on a bench, nodding politely at half-known faces while my mind sprinted backstage in the inner theatre of school corridors, college ambitions, friendships that bloomed and imploded, romantic pursuits and exits I should have taken earlier. Achievements I still polish. Regrets that refuse to fade. All of it rehearsed endlessly within the social fencing I obeyed without protest.
What surprised me wasn’t the things that went wrong but how vividly I enjoyed imagining them going wrong. Alternate timelines played in ultra-HD. Different risks. Sharper rebellions. Better lines delivered far too late. Being good at scenario-building is both a gift and a mild curse. I’ve always loved storytelling, which probably explains why Monika Karamchandani’s talk at the ESOMAR conference about childhood ambitions we never fulfilled hit so close to home.
Inside my inner theatre, I live them all. I am a soldier. A filmmaker. A good cricketer. A famous novelist. A brilliant husband. A great father.
The last two were not childhood dreams, but the roles I could have done far better.
Age has never felt like a limitation except when someone calls me a “Senior Citizen.” I hate the term, even as I greedily accept every discount attached to it. Hypocrisy, like wisdom, matures well. I keep myself busy writing unsolicited opinions, overthinking harmless ideas. All this to prevent specific thoughts from demanding a permanent seat in the stalls.
I don’t believe in “Why me?” It never helped earlier; it won’t start now. I accept polarity. I live in the present. Yet I remain baffled by the version of me my generation has passed down. Why am I seen as antisocial? Why are children wary of me? Why am I used as leverage to “Do it, or he’ll be upset”, when I wasn’t even consulted?
I don’t need others to manufacture excitement. My inner theatre, generously adulterated with memory and imagination, supplies enough adrenaline. Sometimes too much.
I am also a practitioner of lucid dreaming. Most nights, I wake around 3 to 3:30 AM for the mandatory water break and then re-enter the same dream, exactly where I left off, as if the inner theatre has an intermission, not an ending. In those dreams, memory merges with invention. Occasionally, I meet people from my past (more than acquaintances) and they seem happy to see me. No explanations. No regret. Just shared ease. Make of that what you will.
I believe in dying empty. No desire unfulfilled. My bucket list is shorter now—curated, practical. The bucket leaks, but it sits under a waterfall of passion and ambition. Time is short. It always was. Some things are crossed out, like paragliding, bungee jumping, blackwater rafting, Alaska, Antarctica and meeting certain interesting old friends again. What remains are things entirely under my control: finishing and publishing manuscripts that are almost complete.
So here I am. Confused. Entertained by contradiction. Possibly misunderstood and certainly misunderstood by myself. Still seated in the inner theatre, watching the play run longer than expected.
And now, over to you.
If you’ve stayed this long, I’m curious, not for validation, but for perspective.
Does your inner theatre behave this way?
If you know me, is this the person you recognise, or is it a complete surprise?
And if you don’t know me at all, does any of this feel uncomfortably familiar?
Share your thoughts. Disagree freely. Add your own scenes.
Feedback always works. Remember, I reserve the right to listen, nod thoughtfully, and change absolutely nothing.
