The world and the darkness spilling in it

I used to have a fear of theatres. Not for the performances played, neither of the actors nor the setting. I feared when the curtains fell. As i child, i would look at the bloody red colour of the curtain with its golden ends and wonder about the things behind it.

No, it wasn't hiding the performance. The performance is meant for the light. What it hid must be something out of this world. It is darkness and whatever creatures lived in it. There were the twisted masks the actors have forgotten to put. Or the costumes that covered every inch of the body. And there must be another world that was twisted upside down, a story only the darkness could tell, for it was alive, unscripted, unfiltered for an audience. It didnt need to be understood by the world. Or perhaps it didnt have the language to do so. As a child it scared me, but now i feel that the reason why i was afraid was because it called me more than anything else. It had been whispering to me, pleading me to tell its story. My darkest fear was trying to warn myself since i was little, that what lay behind the curtains will spill around the world later in my life. And the whisper will follow, pleading me to tell its story...

The sun is setting. The monsters are already sharpening their teeth. The small figures are having such a large shadow on our world. It is time for us powerless creatures(as we believe ourselves to be) to give more power to the powerful, because when the night sets, the play will begin. And there is no script for what is about to happen...

We are afraid. We are uncertain, betrayed by the way we once lived the world.

We are in an endless race. And if we stop, the world will crush us as a man's foot on a caterpillar, using his strength to make the body of the insect one with the ground. To loose its shape until it leaves a spot that disgusts the person doing the action, for the victim is always disgusting to the eyes of the abuser.

People want to escape the rush, yet they end up rushing to escape.

No wonder people want to live in oblivion. And once the darkness sets and the monsters creep in, a fool with his characterising courage shall wave an artificial light at us all. And we lie ourself into believing it. Even though that light does nothing to the monsters but signal our existence to them. And that is our downfall...

I see the way the Forest is shifting. How people are rushing towards the sides. How they are colouring their trees with the most vibrant colours, just to show that in their side life is better. There is less creativity, less thought, therefore more vibrancy. The thing with extreme colours is that the more you see them, the more uncomfortable they make you. A stain for the eyes and the heart that beats fast, of dodging the threat they impose, yet you cannot escape...

The middle ground has become a battlefield of footprints that everyone disregards. I observe from the outside, contemplating if i should rush, pick a side, as the world tells me to. Words sometimes fail to tell the nuance of a colour, but perhaps a story can show the world in the way it deserves to be told. I am standing there, burdened by the stories that are piling my mind and burdening my heart. For stories are not meant to be kept inside a human body. They are meant to be shared...The whisper is still pleading me to tell its story...

The world is a mess. That is why I love creating in it.