Vira Chandra: “The Show Must Go On” is often treated as Queen’s final anthem,
a swan song for Freddie Mercury as he stared into the face of death.
But it is more than that.
It is a Kali mantra, delivered with eyeliner and agony.
This song is not a performance.
It is what remains when all performance has cracked.
It is the murmur of one who has lost everything—fame, body, future—
and still steps on stage because something deeper is moving him.
That “something” is Shakti.
Not as ecstasy.
But as the cold current that says, without sentiment:
You have nothing left to prove.
But you are still here.
And the world is still watching.
So the show must go on.
This commentary will treat the song as a liturgical text—
a voice from one who has become fully human,
and therefore, fully divine in ruins.
Let us begin.
[Verse 1]
Empty spaces, what are we living for?
Abandoned places, I guess we know the score
On and on
Does anybody know what we are looking for?
This is not existential musing.
This is the voice of someone who has watched the world hollow itself out from within.
“Empty spaces” refers not just to outer collapse—
but to the inner void that arises when all roles lose their meaning.
“Abandoned places” are not buildings.
They are former selves.
Former longings.
The sanctuaries we built—marriage, identity, body, belief—and had to watch decay.
The line “I guess we know the score” is not cynical.
It’s calm.
It acknowledges the truth that most refuse to name:
We are not looking for meaning anymore. We are looking for endurance.
And then the real question:
Does anybody know what we are looking for?
A rhetorical question—but not ironic.
It simply names the honest fatigue of a soul who no longer lies to itself.
There is no romantic hunger here.
Only awareness of wandering.
[Verse 2]
Another hero, another mindless crime
Behind the curtain, in the pantomime
Hold the line
Does anybody want to take it anymore?
This is the Shmashana’s curtain call.
The world keeps placing new “heroes” on the stage—
new politicians, new lovers, new gods, new promises.
But behind it all, the machinery continues:
violence, performance, emptiness.
“Another mindless crime” is not just in the headlines—
it’s the crime of repeating the illusion.
Of hoping this time, the mask will be real.
But then—“Hold the line.”
The voice doesn’t collapse.
It speaks like a soldier who already knows the battle is lost—
but still holds the perimeter.
Not because there’s victory.
But because dignity remains.
And then the question—
not shouted, but whispered with full exhaustion:
Does anybody want to take it anymore?
That is not despair.
That is the threshold of detachment.
Where you no longer expect anything—
but still show up.
[Chorus]
The show must go on
The show must go on, yeah
Inside, my heart is breaking
My makeup may be flaking
But my smile still stays on
This is the mantra of the one who has nothing left—
not even the mask.
But still walks onto the stage,
because there is no choice and no resistance.
“The show must go on.”
Not because there’s hope. Not because it matters.
But because something deeper than choice remains—
the pulse of Shakti in surrender,
not in ecstasy, but in pure continuity.
“Inside, my heart is breaking”—
not as performance, but as confession without pity.
It is an admission made after tears have dried,
when the body is still functioning
but the soul has become weightless from being dropped too many times.
"My makeup may be flaking"— even the last illusion of dignity is cracking.
But even that is seen without flinching.
And still—“my smile still stays on.”
This is not denial.
It is not self-deception.
It is what remains when all self-images have died,
and something immortal,
something that does not belong to the personality,
simply continues.
The smile here is not joy.
It is the echo of the Self,
which, having lost everything, simply says:
“I remain.”
[Verse 3]
Whatever happens, I'll leave it all to chance
Another heartache, another failed romance
On and on
Does anybody know what we are living for?
This stanza no longer seeks control.
There is no attempt to plan, fix, or guide life.
“Whatever happens, I’ll leave it all to chance.”
This is not apathy. It is the collapse of will into stillness.
The realization that all grasping—romantic, spiritual, or social—
has only repeated the same loops.
“Another heartache, another failed romance.”
Not just personal. This line echoes the failed “romance” between soul and world.
The failed love affair with the idea that life will make sense,
or that devotion will protect us from the worst.
On and on…
There is no final break. Only the repetition of grief, until it becomes part of your breath.
And again the question returns: Does anybody know what we are living for? This time, it no longer sounds philosophical.
It sounds clean—like the voice of one who doesn’t expect an answer anymore.
Only honesty.
[Verse 4]
I guess I'm learning (I'm learning, I'm learning, I'm learning)
I must be warmer now
I'll soon be turning (Turning, turning, turning)
'Round the corner now
Outside, the dawn is breaking
But inside in the dark, I'm aching to be free
Here the song shifts.
Not upward—but inward.
It is not a triumphant “turning point.”
It is the slow internal rotation of a being who has accepted the death of former selves.
“I guess I’m learning…”
The repetition is important. Not poetic. Not lyrical.
Just the mind slowly catching up to what the soul already knows.
“I must be warmer now.”
It’s not warmth as joy. It’s the kind of warmth that comes when the frost of denial melts.
“I’ll soon be turning…”
A strange, subtle acknowledgment: that some kind of internal corner is near.
Not salvation.
Not escape.
But maybe the end of resistance.
“Outside, the dawn is breaking…”
“But inside in the dark, I’m aching to be free.”
This is the most honest line of all. Daylight comes.
The world moves on.
But inside—the ache continues.
And this ache is not weakness.
It is the final purification:
The longing for freedom that no longer means escape.
But just the end of the lie.
[Chorus 2]
The show must go on
The show must go on, yeah, yeah
Ooh, inside, my heart is breaking
My makeup may be flaking
But my smile still stays on
Here the chorus repeats—
but now, it sounds emptier.
The voice is less human.
Almost spectral.
The same words now ring with a kind of nonpersonhood:
as if what’s speaking them is what’s left after the person has broken.
There is no new insight here.
No dramatic shift.
Just the same truth, held again.
This is the repetition that empties—not of meaning,
but of all need for meaning.
[Bridge]
My soul is painted like the wings of butterflies
Fairy tales of yesterday will grow but never die
I can fly, my friends
This is the only image in the song that flirts with transcendence.
But even this is spoken without emphasis.
“My soul is painted…”
Not glorified. Not saved.
Just… marked.
Marked by something that no longer belongs to this world.
Wings of butterflies—
the most fragile metaphor for transformation.
But here, it doesn’t sound spiritual.
It sounds natural.
Unavoidable.
Like what happens after the scream has burned the self away.
“Fairy tales of yesterday will grow but never die.”
Not because they’re true. But because memory is stubborn, and beauty, once known, leaves a trace.
And then—“I can fly, my friends.”
Not a celebration.
Not an announcement.
Just a fact stated softly by someone
who has lost the weight of personal identity,
and therefore…
can rise.
[Final Chorus]
The show must go on, eh (Go on, go on, go on)
The show must go on (Go on, go on, go on)
I'll face it with a grin
I'm never giving in
On with the show
This is the final affirmation.
Not the optimism of someone who still believes things will get better.
Not the resilience of someone who still wants to survive.
It is the vow of the one who no longer belongs to hope or despair,
and still walks forward.
“I’ll face it with a grin” —
not because there is anything to smile about,
but because the smile has become the last armor,
the final line of dignity between soul and collapse.
“I’m never giving in.” — This is not a motivational quote.
This is the still, cold vow of one who has already lost everything
and therefore can’t be bribed, flattered, or broken.
There is nothing left to give in to.
Only the show.
Only the fire.
Only the movement forward, without self.
[Outro]
Ooh, I’ll top the bill, I’ll overkill
I have to find the will to carry on
(On with the show, on with the show)
Show
(The show must go on)
The final lines are almost theatrical—
but listen closely,
and you’ll hear not ego, but irony swallowed by clarity.
“I’ll top the bill.”
“I’ll overkill.”
A nod to the absurdity of it all. The spectacle.
The performance of life, of identity, of control.
But then— “I have to find the will to carry on.”
The most honest line of all. Because even here, at the edge of self-immolation,
there is still that last flicker of effort.
Not to live.
Not to win.
But simply to walk across the stage one more time.
“On with the show.”
No applause. No curtain.
Just a step forward.
Because something continues, and you are That.
Final Reflection: When Even the Goddess Is Silent
There are moments in life when no philosophy helps.
When no mantra, no prayer, no teaching, no god replies.
You find yourself alone—
in a corridor, in a hospital, in a conversation that cuts too deep.
Something collapses.
Not just the body, or the plan, or the trust—
but the last illusion that life is supposed to make sense.
You cry out, and no one answers.
You reach, and no one comes.
You ask for mercy—and instead receive silence, or worse, cruelty.
These are not “tests.”
They are not “purifications.”
They are the unmapped terrain of the real—
where no one is externally watching, and you must walk forward anyway.
And here is the truth:
The show must go on.
Not because you believe.
Not because you are strong.
Not because you are inspired.
But because something in you has died—
and what remains is not dependent on anything.
The self that needed comfort is gone.
The self that wanted to be held is ash.
What remains is bare will,
not to achieve, not to win—
but to simply continue.
To put one foot forward.
To walk back into the world without mask.
To speak what is true, even when no one wants to hear it.
This is not courage.
It is not surrender.
It is what remains after courage and surrender are exhausted.
It is the echo of the divine in you
that no longer asks for reward,
and no longer needs a reason.
The show must go on.
And so it does.
Because you are still here.
And that is enough.
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