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“Wherever have you been?”
It does not matter. I am here now.
“Great actor, offer me a line, please.”
I have been trapped in the space between you and I, which is suspended by a rope.
“More.”
Patience was never in your repertoire.
“Do not make that face. You have lost your fine expressions. Poor Garrick would be rather ashamed.”
Fair Juliet, shall it suffice to apologize for it all?
“Ha! I promise you are not as witty as the corporals tell you.”
Quiet. You will kiss me once, then we exeunt.
“You cannot tell me what to do in this place. And do not inflict your hubris onto me. I wish only for the truth.”
The truth is an art. Graceless, but an art still. And I am limited in my skill sets, despite what other minds may believe when they set eyes upon me.
“In this night terror, you are a master of all trades and creation.”
You have never been one to forget your dreams. This is a terror. And they will only confuse you further.
“It is easy to forget them with that man in my marriage bed. I will not forget this one.”
We are alone. Art is most pleasurable to perform in public. I move with intention for all to see.
“Cast me in the light, then. You are grasping for something, but I am right here. I see you.”
See this truth: we are no blink in the universe, but a blind man’s gaze.
“I have no need for truth. Only a reversal of time.”
Time rots an image. You will forget. I speak of art because I am a man trapped in a museum.
“Is this museum lit well, blind man?”
A light is cast on everything, and dulls the brushwork. Your predecessors lie - this light is distant and unfathomable.
“No matter. I have been told that the Light pushes through: it pesters and uncloaks - then again, that selfsame Light did not bring a sufficient marriage. Tell me about your museum.”
Enough of that. I am meant for the stage of the platform, and upon it I played a beautiful part. A distracted actor is a failure. I have failed: I have lingered in the image of you before the snap of my neck. I live among the bright strands of your hair.
“These words are cruel. That Prince of Denmark gave gifts to a dying woman as well.”
Ophelia, you are not very good at pretending to dislike dirtying your fair hands. You spied for me, then dug up the flowers for your own grave.
“It is clear you hold no remorse for your dancing manipulations.”
But I too was a puppet; hung from the platform made of willow. The hands of war only know how to grip, and they move us towards providence. The borders of this land are held together by tack-stitches, as are we. I long knew this.
“I feel my threads are coming loose. That pathetic Major saw my madness. Do you not think me capable of my own distress?”
Clever girl. The runes you spoke in are only known to us.
“It was a performance, yes - but no work of fiction.”
A movement of frantic riddles are the work of a spy. You are a natural. You showed me at the first dance, long ago.
“Yes. In your museum, do paintings of dances seem to move?”
I am not here to be interrogated.
“Questions are appropriate in dreams. The Light leads, but never concludes. Where else will I obtain the answers I seek?”
Then here are the words you seek: I will dismantle this rat king of treacherous rebels, and marry you in the light of a church, while Polonius looks on in scorn. And for all your sadness, you insist on speaking of Light. Resolve this conflict, and I will be free.
“It is not just about you.”
Pardon me, my lady - we will all be free. There is Light in your son's eyes that you must tend to.
“We are going in circles. This game has no need for a winner.”
To be in these circles with you is what I desire.
“You are particularly honest today. Has Heaven taught you well?”
I am spliced in two: part of me lies in the Second Circle, and the other in the Eighth, as Dante would have it.
“You make me a confession booth?”
So it seems. Ah, now I must head to the circle of heresy as well, and you to your nunnery.
“I am the commander here. Perform this order: you will draw me once a week. I shall receive them in the post, and judge them on the accuracy of my features. I will know if you are keeping me in your memory or not.”
Yes. I shall speak in shapes and shapes alone. And as for my “acting” - leave me with lines to perform. A play written for oneself endlessly loops.
“I shall. It is all we may have.”