He walked into the dark auditorium. There was only one source of light there- the stage; the stage was lit. Even though it was empty. Only the red, thick, heavy curtains hanging on each side. He walked along the side aisle to row G and sat in seat number 17. Sideways. But still facing the stage. It was an early morning. The rehearsals haven't started yet. And won't for quite a while. He took a packet of cigarettes from his back pocket and lit it. And kept staring at the stage. Just staring. Without a single thought in his head- preparing for the day ahead. The smoke, lit by the stage lights, was clearly visible. It was going up towards the dress circle and disappearing in the darkness. The whole theatre smelled of dust and smoke. There was something magical about it: still, quiet and dark.
He sat still on his own in an empty theatre. But he wasn't lonely. No. Far from it. He liked it. Very much, actually. Being in the theatre meant being in a different realm for him: there was a world just getting up outside those black walls and artificial lights and the layers and layers of dust. But here, in this black auditorium without a single chance of a daylight, the outside laws did not exist. Just the stillness. As if it was resting before another extraordinary day. Because there's not a day in a theatre without something magical happening.
He took another puff and adjusted his seating position. And kept staring at the stage. During these moments he blended in and became one with the theatre. And he liked it.
To be or not to be, that is your question.
To wonder about the purpose of thyself.
To be, to die, to dream, to sleep.
You say you toss and turn and turn and toss
In the early hours of the night
Wondering, dreaming how to conquer the world.
But it’s so easy for you when the road in front and behind
Has already been laid.
My question is, to leave or not to leave.
I have nine thousand names,
You add another seven more:
A lover, mother, sister, whore
And many, many more.
I also toss and turn and wonder.
But not dream.
I am allowed no dreams.
Well, not of my very own at least.
To nurture, to support, to clean, to cook, to kiss, to love,
To never ever question.
The biggest of them all- give birth.
My question is- what for?
Is my existence of a less importance?
Don’t also have I lands to conquer?
No. Because I am a she,
I have no time to think those thoughts
About the heights of the existence.
I’m to be had, to be looked at,
And be an add-on thine image
But not a person of my own.
My body's under your command
I do not qualify for the condition.
The one, the human, I am referring to:
The life that I endure, apparently, is just for me
And not for others to identify with.
You say I'm angry, but I'm not.
I'm sad. And hurt. And understood not.
You shout a lot of different names:
A spinster, witch, a feminist or
When you're really really mad-
You say I'm gay...
Because I ran away from men.
And that is why it hurts.
Because I did't, I just not need one.
I am enough.
I'm not a part, a second half, a piece or even better-
The overall correct SO.
I am the daughter of the moon, the sister of the night,
The mother of the sea, the lover of the wind.
I am a cycle.
I need to run, to see, to scream and to create.
I am enough.
I know I am.
But dreams, so deeply rooted in thyself, in others,
Even in my very self sometimes,
Whisper quietly at night:
Alone. Without an heir. You're not what woman is.
And that is why my question, to leave or not to leave,
Has not attained an answer yet.
I know I am allowed no dreams.
But I have plans, my head is full of them.
Ideas sprouting by the dozen.
However, it's sad that there, for me, can only one existence be:
It's either plans, and freedom and running naked in a field, or you,
My man, my part, to qualify my self for the condition.
And now you see, the depths of my confusion.
But shhh, here comes my man,
The fearless Eugene.
I better close my eyes as if I sleep.
And once he is inside me
I’ll try to concentrate
On him and his existence.
I have no dreams, remember.
Here, have my body
Because I'm so much, so much more.
She was sitting at a table outside the restaurant. On her own. The day was grey but warm. There was a glass of white wine in front of her. She was slowly sipping it while waiting for the salad to arrive. She wasn’t on a diet, definitely not. She could have had whatever she wanted, especially at her age. She was having it because she liked it. There weren’t too many people passing by, so it must have been a Tuesday. Around 3pm.
She was sitting still, looking at the distance. It was like a meditation for her: not thinking about anything, just enjoying the moment, watching the city. There was someone playing an accordion in the distance.
Another sip. The wine was dry. She developed the liking for it over the years. When she was young, she preferred it sweet because she had a sweet tooth. She always had a glass of wine with her meals but she wasn’t an alcoholic- she would have enjoyed a glass of water with a lemon just the same. But she liked the taste of wine with her food. That’s why she was having it. It gave her that strange but pleasant holiday feel. Even though she was not on holiday. The wind blew from the west: warm and slow. You could sense the change in it: it was the end of a summer wind. And it brought the smell of freshly baked croissants from the bakery not far away.
She had another sip. And smiled. She liked having lunch with the city. It was their little ritual.