A young Robin Williams stands on a stage in a darkened, empty auditorium. His head is bowed and slowly he looks up. He sees the stage lights and spotlights, now dark, and turns them on in his mind. He lifts his arms, shouts and screams and cries, listening to the echoes. He laughs, and looks around this platform that he has inhabited, and runs the circle of this new world, and crisscrosses in every direction, laughing, howling, weeping! His mind is blown, his soul learns to fly, his body becomes ethereal. No one is there to know but himself and the universe. And it is good.
This is but my imagination, though I believe in its’ possibility.
Having no audience is liberating. It gives leeway for a certain type of madness. It is falling through space with no fear of landing. (A Douglas Adams character learned to levitate by throwing himself at the ground and missing.)
And so, I now stand on this “stage”. I welcome any who peek through the side doors or beneath the tent flaps to watch this small performance, but this is just me in an arena that I have inhabited for the time being. I hope that I give cause for a smile. (If you have bought a ticket, I doff my hat to you.)
Essentially, I am a wordsmith busker, handing out dreams on the corner for the applause or a “Well done”.
There is a personal therapy here. Like a fantasy Cyrano, using this sword to battle demons as I compose poetry and desire an unrequited self-love. (Perhaps that is too personal.)
LIFE — An endless dance,
an effort to break the bonds and soar in the heavens.
Here I can break the chains and
drop the masks of old. No one
challenges the subtle dancer who cavorts
amongst the spirits
of universal chaos.
Thank you. I bow to my empty theater and smile.
And it is good.