skonen_blades

All the world’s a stage.

We broke into the theater and spent the night trying on costumes in the darkness while the actors slept.
We were villains spun from failed expectations and crushed hopes. We were heroes with dark secrets. We were conferring emperors. We were slaves on the run. We were all kinds of lovers.
Kabuki grease paint ran off our kissed faces in rivers of mixing colour.
Only by hiding were we free.

They found us like that. Naked, embarrassed, smiling at their shock and outrage, tangled and sprawled on a pile of simple identities. We’d performed without an audience. We weren’t allowed to be there. They surrounded us and sent for the authorities.

We were a giggling flesh spider, too lost in the joy of abandon to care about the upcoming punishment.

Trespassing in a playhouse was a serious offence.

I think about that night often. It occurs to me here as I count the bars. My eyes have adjusted to the darkness. The only costumes I have now are in my imagination.

It’s a question we’re all faced with at one point or another. Is one night worth a lifetime?

I still don’t know the answer.



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