Inside the soundtrack:
There’s no story line, other forms of some, they left hours ago, and she just doesn’t know what to say. It’s late. It’s nice to sit with legs dangling off an empty stage. That soliloquy pops in automatically, everyone’s done it. But only the first line comes to mind. So she stands, gestures one outstretched hand like a swan…nothing. Her eyes raise in that, well what did you expect expression. Sing? That ain’t happening. There’s only one thing to do and she doesn’t feel it. The singers do. They give silky pain then make everything alright again in ninety bpm. She makes a cricket sound as she tries to think of a poem to make it alright. It wouldn’t be right to bring a pretend audience down and not leave them smiling…nothing. Maybe a pretty little haiku, not good enough. None of them are. They don’t hit. She’s been hit, hard. Maybe it’s the melody, lyrics, but she knows it’s the deliverer.
“Think in ninety beats per minute. Whether I’m on a written stage or not, somehow there has to be a verse to make it alright. I may have one or two, but they don’t come to mind. Only the first line of that soliloquy.”
The lights of the foyer blind, but that soundtrack hits every time.


3 thoughts on “Somehow

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