The Bow

The make-up’s removed. The costume hung up. The words stored in that faraway compartment, to be opened only when needed. The audience has clapped. The stage is cleared. The show has gone on. How depressing.

           Such is the lot that too many of us have foolishly chosen. Working hours upon hours, weeks upon weeks, years upon years in the creation of a singular tableau. A canvas onto which we pour our hearts, dreams and blood, for it to be unceremoniously concluded on a given day. It’s too much like a child coming of age, fleeing the coop to leave us wondering what am I to do now?

           I am choosing to go on. Like a wounded bull, I shall chase to the very last, until that day I am left out to pasture in beautiful fields of green. Yes, I will gore a few, stumble in a few overzealous charges, but I’ll remained focused. Seeing that red waved before me, enticing me to take a flying leap, I will prevail. And should it be swept from my sight at the opportune moment, I’ll go at it once more. Why? Because I know it’s meant to be, it’s mine for the taking. Always was and always will be.

           There is destiny in these steps. This is not an empty space. The thrill is on.

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