literature

The Play

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Literature Text

I sit in the darkness, waiting for the rise of the curtain.
It’s the third act, and the players have their props and sets.
I’m watching with mild interest, but nothing more.
Every moment of every scene has been exactly the same.
Sure, the minor details change, but it’s the same story.
Like a thread reused to stitch together cloth of another pattern,
Passed through the same holes, in the same way.
The players even realize that the parts they perform are stale,
The room reeks of stagnant discord and boredom.
One in particular is familiar, and he has been fighting since the beginning.
His thrashes have gone dull now, more relative to spasms than anything.
A tear rolls from his eye and splashes onto the black stage floor.
No one hears it, no one sees it, not even the one standing there holding him.
I yearn for a change in something… I’m not sure what though.
All I can tell is that I grow weary of the story that plays out before me.
Something different, something exciting, something to grab my attention.
Why isn’t this more like the movies?
Where are the explosions,
The heart-pounding excitement to keep me perched on my seat edge,
The gorgeous women to fawn and lust,
The friends to envy, to sacrifice for,
The causes that are beyond noble,
The triumph over adversity and destitution?
I’m jerked back to the dark proscenium, something is changing.
No, it’s not… I was mistaken, again.
False hope, teases, mocked interest, misunderstandings.
I’d like to leave this redundant mess to its inevitable conclusion,
But I can’t… I’m pulled back in like a yo-yo over and over.
So, I sit here to observe this folly of falsities till it crashes to a halt,
Without applause, without a curtain call, without anything.
And I’ll be left sitting here in the darkness, to sort out what it all means.
Once again, dark times in an otherwise happy relationship. It happens, we argue, I write, we're good. LOL
© 2005 - 2024 Erasmas
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