Written 2/10/1 Rewrite 2/11/17
Plot, what plot? If there’s been one, I’ve yet to grasp it. The further it’s chased, the more faded the path. A tragedy wrapped up in comedy. A feeling you get when you realize, “Wait, that’s it?”
The ticket without refund. Ab Ovo without middle or conclusion. The plot of my life’s confusion. A mish-mash of genres crunched into a sage; one too long to read yet a paragraph short.
Who can tell what the fates were smoking. Someone dropped the ball? So many possibles for our little doll. But do they reach out and grasp them? Not at all. Season One’s kinda fun. Season two’s a blurry bore.
What romance arc? Not even a bit? Whoever wrote this is full of grit. Season three, drama at last. Wait, too much! Great, now we’re stuck in the past. The actors killed off left and right until one remains with no script, staring out among the eyes of the world.
Quick, tell a joke! that works in Shakespeare- if the cast doesn’t croak… Is anyone really sitting there? I’m standing, enacting the same lines over and over. The lights are stifling. Oh! Someone’s there?
Ovular glasses, dark hair- holding the story. “Who are you?” I ask.
“I think you know.”
“Where’s the rest?”
“That’s up to you, me; improves what we do best.”