Then again, who doesn't? The flash of a spotlight in your eyes, the stares of hundreds (or thousands if you're lucky) to fill you entirely with adrenaline and the desperate hope that you won't ruin an entire show somehow. Even if the part in the play isn't huge, and you may only get a handful of lines, if any, it's still exciting. You spend weeks or months prepping yourself for the unpredictable, but nothing really settles in your brain until those curtains are pulled back, the lights are directed to you, and silence fills the room.
You feel like the center of the world for the briefest amount of time, kind of like a celebrity. You almost don't want to get off stage, out of costume, and go be the real person you are afterward. From the looks on everyone else's faces, they don't really want to either.
Flowers that you're given feel awkward in your hands, as if they were props for a scene rather than the sword from your play. Yeah, that felt like home, like...reality. Modern clothes on everybody seems almost comical for a few minutes, and their plain faces look peculiar. The martian people they were but minutes ago looked more natural, with their silly hats and clothes.
It takes time to remember that it was just a play; maybe you don't put two and two together until you step outside and are greeted by the air, and lights from the parking lot. Welcome, it says gently, as if waking you from a trance.
Oh, you reply.
Then silently you get in a car, and drive off, away from the theater.
No comments:
Post a Comment