Mostly because things started getting a little too real—we remember the casting call where we learn that he has a deep need to be loved, of fights both real and simulated, of not knowing how to talk to anyone who doesn’t resemble northeast Ohio, of wanting to talk with strangers on the rooftop.

To be aware of falsehood is to know what truth is, unless it all displays itself as artifice: a wooden bird standing atop a treehouse, a bright light meant to wash out the imperfections on my forehead. I know of wood—of how we eliminate as much of it as possible to create something worthwhile, of how it burns when guided; birch bark ignites faster than paper some days, even though they both come from the same source, although the unprocessed has a harder time flying away with a strong wind off of a cold lake.

What happens when we ask someone whose life has been to perform to stop pretending—do we get to see something hidden; we know of some of the tricks of the eye, how there are thin pieces of plywood under the mat to break falls, but there are also razor blades tucked in between fingers to easier open up an eyebrow. I am an actor playing a fighter playing an actor playing a father—someone who has seen everything this world has to offer and deciding to take it apart; as if you can separate a life from the lights that illuminate how strong we are.

And perhaps this is why no one ever leaves this business—of how we parade old legends out on stage, their skin separating from the woody plant that they have become; too slick, still, to burn, too young to completely dry out. When you ask about someone from your youth, you can simply state that they are still at it, somewhere, away from where there are hard cameras and long wires—they are in dimly lit gymnasiums, centers where there are group exercise classes and middle school proms—replace the dancefloor with a ring; we have the right cables for the microphone so you can hear the bold proclamations of the day—who will be king, who will leave here bloodied, who will leave here out on their feet.

Will you be following me after whatever it is I am known for? I will wake up late—I will never rise with the sun. I will walk to the kitchen—I will drink water from a glass that is cracked on the bottom. There will be days where I will leave the house; perhaps I will get a coffee, perhaps I will meet someone that I have not met yet for lunch—something much different than what I eat now; more greens, perhaps, more spinach. This is real, I will tell you, over and over again. This is how I live now. There is a birthday coming up, and someone has forgot the cake. There is a house in disrepair. There is a child coming. It will have my eyes. I will not know what to do—I will forget the child in its crib, I will forget the child’s shoes, I will forget, and I will forget, and I will forget. I will stop being polite in my absent-mindedness. I will misremember my manners. Please make sure that you are here for all of this, so you can show the world who I was, once. How well I dressed—how I coordinated my tie with my pocket square. How well I moved—how my hair looked. Of course, none of this will be real either—instead, I’ll take the fall to make someone younger look better. I’ll get knocked cold to make the crowd hate you in ways they never thought possible. I’m too old for this, they’ll say, and they’re right. There are decks that need washing. There are children to look after. There are some things that just shouldn’t be seen.

Brian Oliu currently teaches, writes, and fights out of Tuscaloosa, Alabama. He is the author of two chapbooks and four full-length collections of non-fiction, including the lyric-memoir i/o, and So You Know It's Me, a collection of Craigslist Missed Connections. Essays on topics ranging from 8-bit video games, to long distance running, to professional wrestling, appear in Catapult, The Rumpus, Inside Higher Ed, McSweeney's, DIAGRAM, TriQuarterly, Runner's World, Waxwing, Gay Magazine, and elsewhere.