The Other Oscar

In a quiet lane near Merrion Square in Dublin, Ireland, not far from the statue of Oscar Wilde, a teenager named Niall wandered every day after school. He had a peculiar habit—dressing up as famous Irish figures and performing spontaneous monologues to startled pedestrians. Some days he mimicked Beckett, other days Bono. He wore a makeshift Yeats beard made of wool one afternoon and quoted poetry into a baguette like a microphone.

His classmates mocked him mercilessly. “Here comes Shakespeare Junior!” they’d hoot. But Niall didn’t stop. What no one knew was that he did it because he didn’t know who he truly was—and trying on others gave him courage.

One drizzly Thursday, as he stood by Oscar Wilde’s statue reciting a sharp one-liner to a confused tourist, an old woman in a tweed coat approached. She looked at him through her cracked glasses and said, “That’s not Wilde. That’s you, lad. And you’re much more interesting.”

He blinked. “Me?”

She nodded, “Everyone tries to be someone. But you’re the only one playing everyone. That means you’ve forgotten the best role: yourself.”

That night, for the first time, Niall stood in front of the mirror—not as Joyce, not as a politician, but simply as himself. And he wrote his first original play. It was messy, raw, and utterly honest. He performed it alone in the school auditorium to an audience of five. One teacher cried.

Years later, he’d win awards for his absurdist comedies—often featuring lost boys searching for mirrors that don’t reflect others.

Moral:

Sometimes you have to try on every mask before realizing your face was enough all along.

Inspiration:

Be yourself; everyone else is already taken. - Oscar Wilde