If there is ever a return to the stage, her soul will be waiting


Sydney Race

My cat, Roscoe, has comforted me along the way. He’s twenty-one pounds, but that doesn’t mean I can’t hold him like a child.

A lost human and its somber soul lingers in the lonely theater in which it dwells. It isn’t of vicious, malignant nature, but rather a wispy, nurturing manner. She could watch their airy glow dance for eternity. Watching the flares of honey gold and sugar pink mix with the rest of the color spectrum was simply mesmerizing, and she was addicted.

The theater in which this rather airy soul seems to gather itself is a dark gloom. The broken stage is beaten and worn away from their past performances. The curtains with the golden tassel are pulled halfway; she can still see their performance whilst hiding behind the red velvet, yet they aren’t aware of this. 

Beyond the stage is a depth of something unknown. There is nothing–a black more potent than the naked eye can render. The crowd is nobody, and the seats are nowhere. She is the only one watching them play around with magic and discover its prepossessing allure. 

Oh, how she adored the vacancy, for she could vividly see something true, something real. 

The stage: a barren sore without them–it’s meaningless. Their free spirit strides with undoubtful pride from one side to the other taking no breaks. There isn’t a single hiccup with their steps until then, there on the stage, they see her deep Aegean eyes with slits of jade. Their muted blue eyes like cold stone interlocked with hers. Suddenly, the idyllic dancing stopped.

For the first time, they fell, and she wasn’t a swift savior to catch the fall. Once a dreamy figure of rich silk and a pellucid veil–the pale pupils were still discerning–is now fragments of the remains before the two diverged. 

There isn’t a single hiccup with their steps until then, there on the stage, they see her deep Aegean eyes with slits of jade.

She doesn’t know how to piece together the remaining delight that used to be them. After all, the two naive, lost, immature souls were bound together–nothing, not even a split of the duality of our souls could fumble us. 

Here they are, broken, destroyed, shattered, fragmented. 


Gone forever, they are. She was too tired to try and resurrect the unlively remnants of their soul, one in which kept hers from being swept into sadistic pandemonium. How did she return the favor? She swept every last particle of their compelling disposition off into oblivion. What a stupid decision. 

The betrayal in her homely presence shattered their ethereal mirror, and that’s why she can’t piece it back until it is whole. Sometimes, the mere thought of the past reminds her of the childish dances they performed or the colors that once cradled the lost soul. 

Now, it’s nothing but saudade, and she prays that she could have salvaged the little particles of their pretty perfection. 

It’s gone. It’s finished, and the time has passed. She attempts to stand stable on her wary legs, but she falls back down. If, however, she manages to stand upright, she doesn’t dare to leave the abandoned theater. In her mind, the theater is her home–their home. 

So many memories were shared, and she can’t stand to leave the little hope she has left if there even is still some alive. 

If hope hears her violent cries and muttered shrieks, she will forever thrive in the theater for them and for her.