Upon an act with life itself as our stage, I challenge you to remember what we are. When the lines of reality and illusion blur... when passion overlaps with desire, it's only fitting that, a human, judge what is truth! The City of Shimérik has long...
Overlooking the Grand Amphitheatre, Shimérik's cobblestone streets were now bare. For in an implicit covenant, the grandest role lay open to all save the hand that scribed it. Who is he who remains idle? Tied to the plot, beneath the faintest winds, a pendulum in palm swings. Held as if not, this best describes man's nature.
A ghastly apparition outstretches his heaviest hand.
???: "Rise."
Narrator: The pendulum is a tetragonal bipyramid made of labradorite. An earthly heart, dark and foggy yet vibrant and dynamic. Dependent upon the viewer's angle—such is iridescence by nature.
???: "Dither..."
Narrator: It pulsates under a muffled crimson hue. The event beckoned light, for how otherworldly yet rather muted this wanderer's appearance became. Skin as white as snow remained blank, and matching hair that could flow chose not to. These features spoke to an observation pinched between those fingertips. The link, swaying to and fro, invited articulation of the past...
???: "A canvas is the stage bound by no frame, for protean in nature—the human art. Now, on display, the perfect material to start... These puppets in paradise who share one name, show emotions tamed, and it's humanity they blame!
Perchance, I pitied a painter who wished to voice the same. Thus, bestowed a brush to make thy smart. It wrote an audition to wield thy heart for no simple act yields a master of fame..."
Narrator: What was lost in entertaining a farce?
The pendulum came to life, having lost its way, this beating heart was taken apart.
???: "Blending passion with desire, the cost to excite—
Enjoys the struggle, expressions... so pure—
Under the painted seen, it drips—
...a familiar tone, seldom in sight...a mood, a thrill, the cathartic cure...awaken to dream, beware the eclipse!
(*vigorous inhale*)
Delay us no longer, out with this rendition! Deceive us not, the stage, it yearns for volition! Shimérik, feast your eyes... on a natural composition!"
Narrator: Struck by tradition and bound by nature, humanity, now still, overlaps with the moon.
Wandering Poet: "Fall!"
Narrator: At last, he let go.
It was this poet who observed our natural beauty—a human phenomenon. Dragged down to earth by the people's desire... the celestial body known as the Bloody Moon fell from heaven. Now, held by its rightful owner, the climax stirs from within the exalted structure. Shimérik's palette, although flooded with shades of red, would not drown.
Wandering Poet: (*wry laugh*) ...
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"Imperfection in perfection..."
Narrator: Crossing his arms, the poet pivots away from the glowing horizon. He ponders the significance of the shadow behind him. Pacing back and forth, it moves as he does.
Wandering Poet: "Dare not blink, I care not. Once it left my hand, this story, bereft of novelty, ought to be one well-known by now. If not today, then tomorrow. If not the playwright, then the actor...within humanity—a pastiche..."
"One might call it a purpose, a passion, a truth. Yet inundating life, mimicry is now at an acme... Judgment Day, under the crowd's wary eye... O painter, your audition—your canvas lay bare for all to witness. What will they see written upon the stage?"
"...Such flaws, gouge them out if you must! To liberate the dullest of bodies shall require something of substance!"
Narrator: The greatest thrill known to man remains in plain sight. Yet, outside this dream is but an intrusive bit, one that dulls but does not dampen. Light began to gloss over him, and the absence of was soon to be no more. Aimless no more were the patrons who forgot...
Wandering Poet: "Nevertheless, breathe, I will heavy it won't be for this is, my role—my presence alone matters not. As true art has always been arbitrarily defined by the people... of the people... and for the people... though... even the fondest of answers seem to fade..."
"Observe!"
."..And do so idly we shall, for sheathed within the truth, an act will deliver salvation."
Narrator: At this very moment, thesilhouette behind him vanished entirely. Of course, the envoy had no choice... returning towards the ongoing performance—such hunger, such passion, it only thickened.
Wandering Poet: If...O, if master of fame.... reveal unto us the question to sway...
Narrator: Feasting upon this blinding radiance, he spoke no more. For this lucent eclipse, the marrow of tonight. Hiding within, lie the purest of rays; these reactions unknown are those to be savored. Tints, tones, or shades... ambitions, agendas, colors—all of them.
