I've always had a fascination with light. The way an object can catch or reflect its beams of energy. One particular wall in the theater does this in a weird way. How it dried gave emotion an otherwise stone cold wall. The streaks of running paint drops look like tears. Now as you can see from this 100% accurate representation of a crying wall, this is a unique happening for me. I never would've thought that a sliver of sun through the crack in a theater door would inspire this all.

Photo made by myself

          I began to think about tears and the theater, Drama causes tears in some people and this is a drama club. Why have some of our members cried? A hard break up, roll their ankle sliding down a rickety banister. Perhaps the tears are from when you just preformed your first major role in your first play and did a nearly perfect performance. "They cry for our performances because they're so beautiful" (Clune). The stress has caused many of my friends to shatter under the pressure and lose all composure a week prior to opening night. A broken heart or two has caused the wooden floor to become slick with a thin salty layer of liquid emotion. The joys of a crowd cheering for you or when Mereu hands our seniors each a rose as they take their final bow. "Maybe they cry for all the students who have come and gone. (Clune)" Some think they cry with us.

No matter what they cry for or they even do; we believe so. We assume that a 90 degree slope feels for what we do. It gives us a sense of hope I think. Something to impress that only gives us the feedback of a dew drops of paint.

Works Cited

Clune, Mickayla. Personal interview. 13 Nov. 2014

          This week I changed up my pattern by ignoring the theater's occupants and observed the theater itself. Sitting in many locations in the numerous seats that will one day host over three hundred souls. But even when there is no play going on nor a practice session; one soul always remains in this old proscenium theater. As legend goes, there is a restless spirit that will forever preform his ghastly performance.

The story goes that one day a teacher went into the upper section of the theater. He clambered up the twenty or so steep steps, hoisting a bundle of rope with him. He reached the peak of the stairwell and peered around for an anchor with which he could make a most sinister Halloween decoration. Noose in hand, he headed to an unknown location in the upper portion of the stage to where we keep all of our props. (This location is ironically called Prop Heaven.) However, there was no heaven awaiting this poor sod. He was left bound to the theater forever.

Where this is a very sad and tragic event, this teacher's name has been lost in the sands of time. What does this say for us though? No perfect performance will have a name resonating from underneath six feet of earth forever. We'll all one day be sealed in either a glorified and ornate crate or in a ceramic pot on either a mantle or around a neck in a small vial. But what of the body's essence, their spirit? Where does it go? Is it coaxed to a land of perfection or sent to Hell in a hand basket? Or are they forced to live forever in a land that they aren't welcomed in, the real of the living?