They met after many years. Shameless hungry eyes. A hand touching the screen. A secret tear falling down his cheek.
He spoke of Shakespeare. She spoke against him. None wanted to play the roles that they were prescribed by life and faith. They wanted to live life on their own terms. She was the rain, and not the cloud. He was still searching, drench in thousands drops of rain falling from the cloudy sky.
They lived only in each others dreams. She fell for him when she was a twelve year old girl. He sang at the metro station. A rebel without a cause. A stranger in the crowd of anonymous people. He refused to sell and buy whenever he would be told and chose that space underground for himself. She fell for him hundreds of times after that day - under the tree, on a desert, walking to the metro station. Each time she would fall for him only, for that one soul among thousands of others in the universe.
And he? He sometimes used to say he loved her for hundreds of years. Spartacus and Varinia.... and thousand of other names that he had for her... She was his rain, a parrot sitting on the tree outside his window, a red rose on a winter day... or was she?
They both new that Artaud was right when he said "...when we speak the word "life", it must be understood that we are not referring to life as we know it from surface of fact, but to that fragile fluctuating center which forms never reach."
They both lived on the stage of life they constructed for each other in their sleepless nights. He run away from home towards lights. She could not stand the shallowness of the grey world around with its rich shopping centers and speedy images laughing at her from the TV screen she didn't even have. He said that life is surrealistic. She did not agree with him. For her life outside had too many naturalistic instances.... An old man asked her for food today in the street. He had bare legs on this cold winter day. She still did not know how to feel each time life laughed at her dreams of green trees and showed her grey colours instead. She run... She always run inside herself, where it was warm, where there were colours and light.
She wanted to get dirty with passions and colours of life, each and every shade of it. He wanted to watch her from far away, too scared to break the silence that divided them for centuries. She touched the screen to touch his face. Glasses... He was wearing glasses that day. She wanted to break through the screen, his skin, his flesh, his organs and rest her head on his tired soul.
He slept while counting the minutes... minutes... minutes... seconds.. seconds....seconds... she measured life in minutes and seconds dividing her from another call.
No, Mr Grotowski, you were wrong in your contempt for technology... a video call can mean so much in the theatre of life.
He spoke of Shakespeare. She spoke against him. None wanted to play the roles that they were prescribed by life and faith. They wanted to live life on their own terms. She was the rain, and not the cloud. He was still searching, drench in thousands drops of rain falling from the cloudy sky.
They lived only in each others dreams. She fell for him when she was a twelve year old girl. He sang at the metro station. A rebel without a cause. A stranger in the crowd of anonymous people. He refused to sell and buy whenever he would be told and chose that space underground for himself. She fell for him hundreds of times after that day - under the tree, on a desert, walking to the metro station. Each time she would fall for him only, for that one soul among thousands of others in the universe.
And he? He sometimes used to say he loved her for hundreds of years. Spartacus and Varinia.... and thousand of other names that he had for her... She was his rain, a parrot sitting on the tree outside his window, a red rose on a winter day... or was she?
They both new that Artaud was right when he said "...when we speak the word "life", it must be understood that we are not referring to life as we know it from surface of fact, but to that fragile fluctuating center which forms never reach."
They both lived on the stage of life they constructed for each other in their sleepless nights. He run away from home towards lights. She could not stand the shallowness of the grey world around with its rich shopping centers and speedy images laughing at her from the TV screen she didn't even have. He said that life is surrealistic. She did not agree with him. For her life outside had too many naturalistic instances.... An old man asked her for food today in the street. He had bare legs on this cold winter day. She still did not know how to feel each time life laughed at her dreams of green trees and showed her grey colours instead. She run... She always run inside herself, where it was warm, where there were colours and light.
She wanted to get dirty with passions and colours of life, each and every shade of it. He wanted to watch her from far away, too scared to break the silence that divided them for centuries. She touched the screen to touch his face. Glasses... He was wearing glasses that day. She wanted to break through the screen, his skin, his flesh, his organs and rest her head on his tired soul.
He slept while counting the minutes... minutes... minutes... seconds.. seconds....seconds... she measured life in minutes and seconds dividing her from another call.
No, Mr Grotowski, you were wrong in your contempt for technology... a video call can mean so much in the theatre of life.
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