A woman to become. You run away from. When the reflection between your eyes and hers transcends the meaning of time. Loosing yourself at the border between what you want, and what you still are. Knowing you must transform in order to continue...without knowing how. What you think you hate, you adore. The woman on the other side of the door. Reach for the Pandora’s key and unlock the mind. Unbind the hands of your shadow’s doll. I am you, she is I, two mirrors, one black one white, closing into the body of another suicidal bride of ballet, as a book, through her story, in her expression, the stage, time weaving a thread up the sequences of her last seconds, sparkling in a purple and blue stage light. Stretching her arms towards a face for one last kiss, before her knees give in, and weakness erupts through her body. Hitting the mattress, mimicking her death, she collapses into a blankness of thought. As the seconds trickle away, and first tear of blood, plummets to the floor, and the lights of the theatre, with glass of clouds moving before her very eyes, forever raise her soul into the limits of self induced perfection, as she chokes into her last breathe, reciting a broken doll of a life, of her absurdly needed immorality, for the attainment of selection. -----Theatre Begs For Blood & Sin. It Needs Drama To Fill Seats in The Heart of Theatre with Human Emotion. While the Absurdity Lasts For Only A Few Hours. Life Does Not Need Such Peaks Of Psychological Breakdowns. Life Needs Space. Sometimes To Shut All Black Doors Of Memory And Time and Centre Yourself In The Vast Room of Stillness, Where Nothing Can Touch Or Feel You, No Thoughts Penetrate You, Without Your Invitation, Into Their Unknown........Which Is You.
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