The Greatest Showman #1193 – Difficult to Distinguish Between True and False

The bar was extremely lively and noisy. The entire crew was preparing for the first scene. Stanley Charlesson and George Slender had come to Pioneer Village in person, and even Woody Allen unexpectedly appeared on set. The bustling atmosphere made the scene intoxicating.

But the heat was suffocating, almost unbearable, as if his limbs were tightly bound, and no matter how he struggled, it was useless. The feeling of suffocation drowned him, making him feel as though he was sinking, bit by bit.

He nearly fled, pushing open the back door to escape the crowd. He didn't even know where he wanted to go; he just needed to get away.

The fresh, cool air rushed into his lungs, and the world became quiet, almost serene.

In that moment, time seemed to turn back, slipping between his fingers. It was as though he had returned to the cold winter of three years ago, before "Pacific War" had aired, before "Buried Alive" was released. It was a time when he had arrived in New York alone, chasing a dream, even when bloodied and beaten, still refusing to admit defeat.

His gaze dropped to the cigarette between his fingers, and a smile appeared on his lips—though it was unclear whether it was bitter or sarcastic. It had been a long time since he last smoked. This habit had gradually faded, but today, the feeling had returned, as though he had stepped back into that déjà vu moment.

Like fragments of childhood memories, everything blurred the concept of time. Three years vanished in an instant. It all felt as though it had happened just yesterday.

Sometimes, Renly couldn't help but wonder: Is this all just reincarnation?

After all the twists and turns, the role of LeVern Davis found its way into his hands, as if it were fated. Inspired by Don Quixote and based on Dave Van Rank, the Coen brothers had created the character of LeVerne Davis and the story of Drunken Country Ballad. In truth, the story was semi-autobiographical, written about him. In other words, he had once been Dave Van Rank, then became Chu Jiashu, and now he was Renly Hall. What about the future?

It seemed like a ridiculous thought, but was it really so ridiculous?

The smile on his lips grew involuntarily, and he chuckled softly, without thinking, without analysis, just a quiet amusement.

Everything was so familiar. Once you're inside, it's impossible to tell the difference. The boundary between reality and illusion seemed to fade away—perhaps it had never existed. The hazy halo in his vision slowly enveloped him, and he could almost trace the flow of time, as though returning to the cold winter of 2010.

Tonight. Now. Right now.

He had been working part-time in Pioneer Village, waiting for a chance to perform. It wasn't as a waiter, but as a performer. He was an artist, and the hit "Cleopatra" became his livelihood. Though the pay was meager, it was enough to buy a pack of cigarettes or a bottle of beer.

But he was waiting for more—waiting for a call from the union, an invitation to perform, a call from his dream.

He lightly bit the cigarette holder, ready to light it. But a touch of bitterness lingered on his tongue. His hand paused, unsure whether the taste was from the cigarette or from his emotions. The moment of confusion passed quickly, and after blinking, he sighed deeply, placing the cigarette back in the case. He told himself that his resolve was right.

These stubborn convictions were correct.

In his pursuit of dreams and art, he was a lone wanderer. Even if he had to run barefoot through the snow, he would hold his head high, determined to reach the end.

Madness?

Those who gave up on themselves for the sake of survival, money, or profit gradually lost their uniqueness, becoming faceless figures in real life—like marionettes. That, Renly thought, was true stupidity. Take Jim, Troy, or Jane, for example.

If one loses their original innocence, their faith as an artist, their purpose as a creator, then they are no longer themselves. They become just another product on the assembly line. The hardships of life grind them down, and their existence becomes meaningless, mediocre, and forgettable. The art they create loses its soul, and what they leave behind fades completely, swallowed by the masses.

Better to be gone than to live like that.

Thus, even if his mouth was full of bitterness, even if he was freezing cold and bruised, he would refuse to change. Even if it meant burning his life away.

"Bang!" A loud noise rang out behind him. "Get ready! It's your turn to play!" A shout pierced the air, impatient and sharp. "LeVerne? Wayne!"

Yes, he was LeVerne Davis, and it was time for him to take the stage.

He glanced down at the cigarette between his fingers, wanting to smoke but not able to light it. With a quiet nod, he put it back in the case and walked toward the door. The narrow kitchen corridor stretched before him, and as he passed through, his vision cleared. He saw the stage in the center, bathed in light.

Standing by the side, he briefly considered his appearance, then removed his jacket and hung it on a nearby hook. The wet patch on his back was almost comical, but it felt less important than the rolled-up sleeves and the hem of his suit.

He found his guitar in the corner, grabbed it with one hand, and casually rubbed his head with the other. He shook off the moisture from the outdoors and walked straight onto the stage. Sitting down on the wooden chair, he cradled the guitar in his arms, lightly pressing the strings to check their tension, a habit he'd long maintained.

The sound of the guitar strings filled the air, blending with the hum of conversation in the bar. The music was simple, accessible, a subtle nod to the everyday beauty of life—not the refined elegance of high art, but the street art that requires only a guitar and a voice to make an impact.

In the bar, whispers continued, but no one seemed to notice the change on stage.

The lights were dim, casting a soft, creamy yellow beam down onto the chair. The dust in the air danced around him, outlining his figure in a haze that felt both nostalgic and desolate. It was as though he were wearing the shirt of time itself, his aura a blend of melancholy and fleeting strength.

His tousled, golden-brown hair still held the coolness of the air outside. The light sifted through the strands, highlighting the features of his face. His thick, dark lashes cast shadows, but they couldn't mask the wildness in his gaze, the uncontained energy beneath his calm.

He was still, almost peaceful—but there was a world of emotion brimming beneath his surface. It was as though the entire bar had fallen silent, time suspended in that moment.

Anne Silliman gently tugged at Paul Walker's sleeve, whispering softly, "Paul, is that Renly?"

Fearing her voice might disrupt the crew, Paul leaned in close to catch her words and replied, "Yes, that's Renly. Can't you recognize him? He grew a beard for this movie."

Anne shook her head slightly. "It's not the beard."

She fell silent, walking through the bustling crowd. Her eyes remained fixed on the figure on stage, her thoughts quiet. After a long pause, she spoke again, her voice soft, almost wistful. "He's Renly, but he doesn't look like Renly."

Paul raised his eyes, confused. "Not like him?"

Anne shook her head, her thoughts lost in memory. She recalled Renly's performance at the Grammy Awards, singing "The Beast" a cappella—his pride, his loneliness, standing tall in the center of the world. A mix of sadness and bitterness had settled between his brows, but still, there was a quiet, unwavering strength.

Annie was young and couldn't quite put her feelings into words, but her eyes turned red, and she muttered softly, "Yes, and no."

She fell silent again, her gaze never leaving Renly, lost in the layers of his performance.

Paul, having seen this before, understood her thoughts. "I know," he murmured. "He's always surprising in every performance."

At that moment, Renly had yet to even begin performing. Sitting there, tuning his guitar, he already emanated an energy that was palpable. It was as though nothing had changed, yet everything had.

"He's Renly, but tonight, he's LeVerne," Paul explained quietly.