I sit on the stage.
Darkness surrounds me.
The audience, if there is one,
There are no props on the stage
Only layers of black curtains.
I don’t remember auditioning for a play,
But here I am.
It’s odd there is no music or
I sit in my darkness for what seems like forever
But there is still no sound, no movement, no life.
Just stillness and a mild sense of confusion.
I feel the space in front of me more that see it.
I sense it is there, curtains in a circular shape
A boundary perhaps but between what and where?
The other side is unknown and unknowable
Until the show begins.
But will it begin? Still no script or players,
No music or lights.
I run my hand through my hair to prove to myself that
I am still real in this sensory deprived place.
But what is real about an empty stage, a wordless play,
A playerless story?
I begin to realize that
None of those things matter.
All is stillness and non-separate.
The “show” never begins and never ends.
The circular curtain and empty stage contain eternity
And this space is an empty place within me.
There will be no play, no script,
No lights, no audience.
This story is mine, the darkness my stillness,
The only witness, me.
Just me as part of the universal consciousness
Acting out a play of well-rehearsed lines without ever saying a word.
Each player a part of the whole
Never separate from the others.
All joined in the cosmic drama
The curtain rises on one story, one actor, one consciousness
In an that act never ends.