Intermission

A reflection after a busy shift at work.

I had forgotten I was on stage. The lights had obscured all but this brightly lit enclosure,  forces pushing and pulling me into action, the present drama all there was.

Intermission.

I remember. Improv over now, I walk to a chair in the wings, memories of the outside life floating to the surface;  lumpen things chained to corks, breaking the surface of the calming water.

Another.

Who is out there? My eyes have yet to adjust. I remember a conversation, a pain, a feeling. On the stage when that’s all there seemed to be, these ‘wings’ abandoned. It means more to me now than it did then. There was purpose.

Theme. Story.

I feel the presence from beyond the lights, I know the Author is watching. He has called this intermission, I remember that now; I am under his care. About this story, he cares deeply, I remember that too.

I kneel before him, the character he has created for the story, but more, now a friend of the great Author. He has allowed me to know that there is more than the story, shadow is given substance. What kind of writer could do such a thing? Here now: in the puzzlement of the character who has assumed being held up by his own conscious activity. A stab of defiant pride.

But no.

I bow, enjoying the enjoyment I feel as I let him be Author now. That is the answer. A strange connection, between author and character.  Another thought breaks surface. What if he has written himself into the story? I remember.
He is still writing.

What if I forget?

I know I will, soon the heat and the brightness, and the waters once again disturbed, for the story still requires me. He will uphold me. He will not forget, and he will remind me. He will call intermission, once again he will lead me, and I will remember.