Folded Thought of the Day
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
stage...save 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?
~ ~ ~
Return to the Fold
Send them to Daily_Editor@hotmail.com.
Unless otherwise noted, all Folded Thoughts were written by me,
aka The Daily Editor, aka The Man Below the Fold.
Copyright 2001-2009 © Belowthefold.net