Beneath the Proscenium Arch

I see their glorious painted faces, thick with foundation and bright with lipstick. Sweat glistens at their hairlines. Strong emotions are portrayed in these canvases. Their hands are open, arms drawn back in fear or rage. Porcelain smiles stretch largely between their cheeks in joy or song.

I can hear their distinct voices. Even the most tiny whisper exaggerated. Clear consonant pronunciation, ringing sopranos. Every emotion channeled perfectly through their vocal chords.

Their clothing is fantastic, overtly suggestive. Elaborate costumes that scream mother or priest or little girl or hero.
Behind them are dramatic places, arches and columns, green meadows and cloudless skies, old world villages, hospitals, retro living rooms.
Brilliant colors and bright lights drift over them. Unnatural hues and intense whites.
Upon scarred wood, they dance and move, sometimes running, sometimes waltzing, sometimes scuffling in a geriatric manner. Black electrical tape marks beneath their ballet shoes and pumps and loafers and socks and bare feet.

This small collection of people can hold the world in their palms. Dangling you over uncomfortable tension, dragging you through enhanced sadness, chasing you through uplifting happiness. They touch you through their portrayals of love and pain, drawing out every single note in each emotion's complex melody, without even revealing what their real names are.

I see them. I hear them. I want to be them. I used to be one of them.
The uplifted, the damned, the elite, the misunderstood.
These introspective psychologists, these entertaining therapists.
I will return.
I will be one of you again.