Mar 2020
Lights on, first act.
Scrambling for words, you stand up on unsure feet—you weren't given a script. You hate improv, that's all you can think.
Silence finds home in the crowd and settles down, nausea circles its arms around your heart, and even-numbered eyes watch you breathe in and out.
But then a hand pushes you back to your seat, and delivers the finest speech, and you're saved from blues browns and greens blinking at your every feat.
You like this, you think, as the second act begins.
On your chair you keep, thinking up your own scene, one detailed to the last bit.
But carrying it out might be a risk, because the voice of the hand that held you down remains rattling about, and it would be a pity, wouldn't it? To stand up from this silky cushioned seat and strain your own two feet, in the hopes that you can deliver better lines than these.
You like this, you're sure, safe and sound when you're far from the lights.
The voice drones on and on, and you listen just closely enough to know when it's your cue to act, mere moments that flash by once a while.
But as the third act starts, you wait for the voice to speak up, only to find silence and uncountable wondering eyes. A minute passes by, and you know that if you were to stand up no one would flout.
You're free to do your thing, begin your thought up scene with its meticulous script, and how scary that is with blues browns and greens staring at your unsteady feet.
You hate this, you know. How are you to learn all this, all the lines the voice was supposed to speak? Or should you say some of your own? No, that ought to be wrong, your story is not yours.
So you remain sat and forbid the third act to wind down until a new voice and an unknown hand come with their own script at last.
It's all fine—as long as you can't be the one to blame for the ending claps or a jeering crowd, you can deal with blue-green-brown waiting for you to stand up.
Scrambling for words, you stand up on unsure feet—you weren't given a script. You hate improv, that's all you can think.
Silence finds home in the crowd and settles down, nausea circles its arms around your heart, and even-numbered eyes watch you breathe in and out.
But then a hand pushes you back to your seat, and delivers the finest speech, and you're saved from blues browns and greens blinking at your every feat.
You like this, you think, as the second act begins.
On your chair you keep, thinking up your own scene, one detailed to the last bit.
But carrying it out might be a risk, because the voice of the hand that held you down remains rattling about, and it would be a pity, wouldn't it? To stand up from this silky cushioned seat and strain your own two feet, in the hopes that you can deliver better lines than these.
You like this, you're sure, safe and sound when you're far from the lights.
The voice drones on and on, and you listen just closely enough to know when it's your cue to act, mere moments that flash by once a while.
But as the third act starts, you wait for the voice to speak up, only to find silence and uncountable wondering eyes. A minute passes by, and you know that if you were to stand up no one would flout.
You're free to do your thing, begin your thought up scene with its meticulous script, and how scary that is with blues browns and greens staring at your unsteady feet.
You hate this, you know. How are you to learn all this, all the lines the voice was supposed to speak? Or should you say some of your own? No, that ought to be wrong, your story is not yours.
So you remain sat and forbid the third act to wind down until a new voice and an unknown hand come with their own script at last.
It's all fine—as long as you can't be the one to blame for the ending claps or a jeering crowd, you can deal with blue-green-brown waiting for you to stand up.
