Theatre is a place bringing truckload of emotional disasters to play with a silly rhythm. What do they wrap in those ghost boxes and behind the curtains? Burning skin of an actor and old books perhaps. Polished glory in the studio of killing lights- they kill you absolutely, in bright and dim shades. This is a blushing irony though. Always a woman sipping her bareness through them and in precise devotion. It gives life to her.
Why do I find it elusive then?
Anything less than what comes straight from mouth unprepared is to be dumped. It’s like vows which are delivered when you are overflowing in an intoxicating spirit. Not the godly spirits but the drug which is cancerous. That’s where theatre is untrue. It’s prepared and that’s why people appreciate it. Appreciate every untrue thing. But these admirals are only passing numbers. They will rest as soon as there comes another monkey with a different studio style.