I couldn't see it in their eyes: the people who wrote love songs as if the emotions were dripping like blood from their fingers.
I couldn't see it in their actions: the people who would break all boundaries because every moment was sacred when it was with you.
E.Y
Sunday 21 November 2010
Friday 5 November 2010
Stage dust
"Ah I love these shoes! She admires her newly bought shoes one more time in the mirror and slams the door behind her.
Before leaving the apartment, she was convinced that she looked great but her confidence was gradually reducing as she was approaching the theatre.
She took a deep breath as she made it through the foyer and followed the noises to find the auditorium. There were tapping of shoes on parquet floor, people instructing where to stand and the sound of determination.
Framed by the door opening, she was afraid of breaking the noise. The energy density inside was overwhelming, almost bursting outside the auditorium.
There was something about theatre actors: They were penniless sophisticated creatures that always had a certain glow to them, almost like a halo. It didn't matter where they were, it always followed them.
Suddenly she felt scruffy and ashamed of her shoes.
On the stage there was a young woman down on her knees, crying out loud and begging for forgiveness to another woman who had turned her back against her, looking outside a window.
Forgiveness she thought. If only saying sorry would make things right. The grudge never disappears.
Then there was him, standing in the corner. She was trying to understand what his role was. Was he a father, a son or maybe a lover?
How long had she known him? She was only in the beginning of her teens when he was doing kissing scenes in tv series. Even her mother would turn the tv towards the kitchen counter when he was on.
One day he completely disappeared from the tv screens. Rumours said that he had become broke and simply met the grim reality of showbiz. The latter was confirmed on a talk show he had attended 3 weeks ago, adding that he had been busy with theatre the last decade. He had also divorced his wife and was now living on his own.
On his own she thought. Him, on his own.
So he had been hiding behind the theatre curtain all these years. Enough time to swallow stage dust all right. He had added a few extra wrinkles on his forehead and was a little gray around the temples. Apart from that, he was still the same being that would make her dream that anything was possible.
"Uhm, hello?" called a voice from the forestage. She turned her head towards the voice to be met by a woman with a notepad in her hand.
"I'm sorry but this is a closed rehearsal. You can't be here," the woman said.
"Oh, I'm sorry," she replied. Only to be met by full attention from the actors on the stage. He too, had her full attention, He looked almost worried about her, as if she was insane. She was so embarrassed that she goofyly made out the room and shut the door behind. Her heart pounding and her face reddened.
She was disappointed in herself. It had taken her 3 weeks to man up and pay the visit and 3 minutes to make a fool out of herself and walk out.
Heading home, she was taking out her frustration on every lose stone she stumpled upon, wearing out the soles of her shoes.
E.Y.
Before leaving the apartment, she was convinced that she looked great but her confidence was gradually reducing as she was approaching the theatre.
She took a deep breath as she made it through the foyer and followed the noises to find the auditorium. There were tapping of shoes on parquet floor, people instructing where to stand and the sound of determination.
Framed by the door opening, she was afraid of breaking the noise. The energy density inside was overwhelming, almost bursting outside the auditorium.
There was something about theatre actors: They were penniless sophisticated creatures that always had a certain glow to them, almost like a halo. It didn't matter where they were, it always followed them.
Suddenly she felt scruffy and ashamed of her shoes.
On the stage there was a young woman down on her knees, crying out loud and begging for forgiveness to another woman who had turned her back against her, looking outside a window.
Forgiveness she thought. If only saying sorry would make things right. The grudge never disappears.
Then there was him, standing in the corner. She was trying to understand what his role was. Was he a father, a son or maybe a lover?
How long had she known him? She was only in the beginning of her teens when he was doing kissing scenes in tv series. Even her mother would turn the tv towards the kitchen counter when he was on.
One day he completely disappeared from the tv screens. Rumours said that he had become broke and simply met the grim reality of showbiz. The latter was confirmed on a talk show he had attended 3 weeks ago, adding that he had been busy with theatre the last decade. He had also divorced his wife and was now living on his own.
On his own she thought. Him, on his own.
So he had been hiding behind the theatre curtain all these years. Enough time to swallow stage dust all right. He had added a few extra wrinkles on his forehead and was a little gray around the temples. Apart from that, he was still the same being that would make her dream that anything was possible.
"Uhm, hello?" called a voice from the forestage. She turned her head towards the voice to be met by a woman with a notepad in her hand.
"I'm sorry but this is a closed rehearsal. You can't be here," the woman said.
"Oh, I'm sorry," she replied. Only to be met by full attention from the actors on the stage. He too, had her full attention, He looked almost worried about her, as if she was insane. She was so embarrassed that she goofyly made out the room and shut the door behind. Her heart pounding and her face reddened.
She was disappointed in herself. It had taken her 3 weeks to man up and pay the visit and 3 minutes to make a fool out of herself and walk out.
Heading home, she was taking out her frustration on every lose stone she stumpled upon, wearing out the soles of her shoes.
E.Y.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)