The curtain rises.
I’m the only one on stage.
The lights hit me.
Warm.
Steady.
Every step.
Every breath belongs to me.
A shadow lurks.
Somewhere in the cheap seats, it leans in.
Imagining the story.
What’s coming?
It doesn’t see the script I wrote.
It doesn’t anticipate the applause that’s to come.
An applause loud enough to fill the room.
I dance.
I write.
I create worlds.
A shadow keeps leaning into a power that doesn’t exist.
Life flows — from my heart,
along my spine,
into my fingers,
through my voice,
The shadow becomes smaller — a distant memory
— a prop,
an old whisper.
The spotlight doesn’t move.
It’s my time now.
My story.
— Naked Fat Cat