When the curtains close
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 paper and as we all know, that is detrimental to creativity.
Too many voices exist in your head. All the different roles you play scream for attention and glory. There's one though. Just one, that is soothing. It takes your heart and hugs it firmly. It takes out the dream and gives you colours to make it prettier. The love that, that specific part of you offers, is consuming and energising. Inspiring and mesmerising.
For a minute, you're in touch with your everything and nothing. For a second you breathe pure gold snowflakes riding on a flying second hand rusty yellow bicycle from cloud to cloud and from planet to planet. For a quarter of a second you reach your inner tranquillity, your soaring creativity, your blissful existence. For that quarter of a second you're free.
The audience starts clapping and it startles you out of your trance state. The critics are smiling at you and start to write feverishly about the glimpse of the universe your show has offered to them. Somehow, they have all felt what you have felt. Somehow 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. Somehow you're everything and nothing. Somehow you now see.
Is it enlightenment or pure madness? Is it freedom or full on captivity? Is it a sun out of heat?
I trust that I'll never know.
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 paper and as we all know, that is detrimental to creativity.
Too many voices exist in your head. All the different roles you play scream for attention and glory. There's one though. Just one, that is soothing. It takes your heart and hugs it firmly. It takes out the dream and gives you colours to make it prettier. The love that, that specific part of you offers, is consuming and energising. Inspiring and mesmerising.
For a minute, you're in touch with your everything and nothing. For a second you breathe pure gold snowflakes riding on a flying second hand rusty yellow bicycle from cloud to cloud and from planet to planet. For a quarter of a second you reach your inner tranquillity, your soaring creativity, your blissful existence. For that quarter of a second you're free.
The audience starts clapping and it startles you out of your trance state. The critics are smiling at you and start to write feverishly about the glimpse of the universe your show has offered to them. Somehow, they have all felt what you have felt. Somehow 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. Somehow you're everything and nothing. Somehow you now see.
Is it enlightenment or pure madness? Is it freedom or full on captivity? Is it a sun out of heat?
I trust that I'll never know.
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