My body fails who I think I am. Her red hair shimmers over saluki-slim shoulders and in the moonlight, her gown dips into the edges of a soft sea. In the daylight though, she is swaddled in gossamer, exhaling prayer and peace. She rescues the barren on their knees, retching forth the pain of existence. Her voice drifts in the dynamic stillness with clarity and knowing: end your seeking and suffer no more.
But there are none to save really. And no freckle-faced, world traveler, writer wannabes. There are only stories underway, parts acting out scenes. Location-less plays arise from a puppet master that never really existed. When it all collapses, I am not the star. And my leading man is simply ink, drying on the script.
It is all okay, though. Compassion abounds because nothing ever stays the same. My character blooms and fades with the illuminated east and departed west. And she is beginning to see the comedy inherent in the entire show. LOL!
Jester, take a bow. Luna, turn your spotlight stage left. Winter, blow your tragedy to studio B. Jessica has had a costume change and is poised to bring down the whole goddamn house.