Spark of Synapses

The lullaby is sung. The circadian rhythm of the body is oscillating from note to note. Night and day, turn into shapeless melodies of a mind and body you once thought you owned.  *  Time is slipping away through every beat of the drum, through every ludicrous dream crack, through the washing waves of the pentagram. Underneath it all, the endless spiralling of the porcelain-like dancers reminds you of everything. * Nothing was lost nor found. You.

It's been a long break. Too many changes to remember or even realise. But they're there. It sometimes feels like life is taking over you and you seize to be able to control it. You play your part, and you play it well but it doesn't seem to be the part that you wanted it to be. Of course you're the lead. The audience is looking at you and your every move. Or maybe the audience is just you looking at yourself. And you're the audience, the lead, the actor, the theatre curator, the cleaner, the director and every damn critic that says it as it is. ''Your show is pure crap. Nothing original, nothing exciting. Food with no salt. No flavour.'' It's that critics voice that echoes in your head, and in the now empty theatre. A critic that simply states what has become of your dream. It's not your fault that your show has been stripped of the glamour and originality. Society has banned imagination. Economy has left you in need for some pieces of