Folded Thought of the Day

Curtain Call

The coda could not have been written by knowing hands. Shouldering all our pitiful surprises in ironic turns of phrase. Everything gone to the dogs. As the orchestra pit starts to heat up...and the curtain begins its bitter ritual. Slowly going through the motions, allowing that final moment to dig its heals into the hearts of the faithful.

Preachers having seen so much hard work slip down the drain...lives and vows gone astray. Sitting quietly among their fellow followers of this predictable drama. A monochromatic tale in a handful of parts, all lying now in pieces on stage left. Piled up and looking ashamed, chained to the final procession like some hangdog POW being paraded along the promenade...symbolizing somebody's idea of finality...of the spoils and burden of conditional peace.

Ambient lights are beginning to fade. Leaving only the spotlight, now burning a hole between our central characters. Casting enough of an incidental glow to allow the brave witness to make one final scan of the program, making sure there were no last-minute substitutions in tonight's principal players. Belief has a life of its own. And those flowers waiting in the wings had better be addressed properly. If only for posterity sake.

We all took too much for granted...were far too careless with our hearts. Stealing more than our share of lines, grabbing the scenery with precious little regard for all the hands that would be charged with their replacement -- seeing to our indiscretions like angels in the night...disappearing now that the run has ended. Fading into the darkness with no fanfare and the barest of notices... buried deep within the recesses of obligatory acknowledgment.

The spotlight seemingly inverting now and casting an eerie glow on the stage...betraying the lonely silhouettes, frozen in their burdened realization -- defining their somber resting place and clearly summarizing the distances that lay between us all. Resting squarely on marks that were there all along...stilled and captured in surrendered silence.

A single voice now rises to the rafters. An a-cappella rendition of tonight's running theme...sweetly and reverentially allowing this closing night its due. One might, at this point, indulge in a moment to ponder who among our earthly wanderers could have penned this curious arrangement...and to what end. Scoring all the elements of this futile tragedy with seemingly indiscriminate ink-black scars...capturing the soul of this matter so carelessly and displaying it with such resilient humility.

Winding down, a lone piano note strikes, filters through the air and hangs in the heavy afterglow. All light now gone from the a flickering bulb which some may take for a struggling star...a ray of hope for some element of redemption to grace these proceedings. Will this lone specter mark a gentle allowance?...a peaceful departure from the stark script we've been attending...will we sense the call and willingly cast all our hopes and healing dreams into the unknown?

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Unless otherwise noted, all Folded Thoughts were written by me,
aka The Daily Editor, aka The Man Below the Fold.

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