I shouldn’t go to sleep after watching movies because when I close my eyes everything turns real, which includes the moon squeaking behind the window pane and the hair becoming needles that prick my fingertips.
So it was that a moon beam entered the room illuminating my soul while observing with a certain curiosity the faded tapestry. The scene – I must admit – was a bit dark and severe, just like those old Flemish interiors and made me feel uncomfortable.
“I like the way you manage the space, it’s effective” she said. “In truth” she added adjusting a crooked frame “I didn’t expect anything so tangible, rather a labyrinth of mirrors, you know..”.
I was on the point of claiming when I woke up. What was she talking about? My usual lack of beliefs concerning the future, perhaps?
In this frame, the arena is overfilled with characters fighting for a fake tower.
We hustle about waiting for the line that follows our name in the script.
When the light is on us, the face is clear, the wrinkles enhanced, the shade gets heavy, the breath short; all this makes the drama.
She’s there, shaping us with that light, burning our souls in the name of the Art. She writes our role again and again and stares at us scribbling furiously with that impudent purple ink that ticks everybody off.