17 days ago, I walk alone onto a darkened stage.
It begins with the first step. The outside world is now shut to all within the large black box. There is no denying me my sovereignty as I stride across the wooden floor, a hundred pairs of eyes straining to catch a glimpse of the faint silhouette that haunts the stage for a moment.
I sit - stillness. And then there is light.
I can almost feel the pulsating life of the living, breathing audience that sits just 4 feet in front of me. And I feed off that life. I feel the rush of air through my lungs as I breathe my lines into existence; give them form; give them being; make them entities. What kind of goddess possesses such power as to create life, create death, create energy?
~~~~~~~
Before I leave the stage that night, I turn back and cast a final, lingering glance at my sanctuary and tabernacle. The stage lies almost bare and waiting, like so many patriarchal gods of old, waiting for a new conquest, a new goddess-lover, with whom to share more nights and matinees of passion.
The stage has many lovers, and I am but a fleeting concubine. The promiscuous stage ensnares many with its allure, and is faithless and cold when the lights go out. But ever I pursue my love, ever I remain faithful, ever I long for the rapture of our next union.
