Since I can't think of anything interesting to say anymore, here is the first scene from the play I'm working on. Enjoy.
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(The speaker comes to center stage. There is only the spotlight on his/her face as she/he speaks.)
SPEAKER: It started with silence; not mere quietness or lack of noise, but actual, real silence: the absence of sound; the lack of existence; the definition of that which was never meant to be.
As if in understanding of this wrong-ness, a voice broke the silence, singing a beautiful, poetic song unbounded by fear, buffeted by love, and clothed in splendor. This song painted the sky and the earth, the sun and the moon, thick forests and vast deserts that, in their inherent beauty, defied the silence and the darkness, which had become but a distant memory.
The song continued, reaching even greater heights with each passing second. It spoke of Passion, of Joy, of Happiness, of Love. And when the song was finished, when it had reached it zenith, man came forth from the nothingness. The song’s greatest creation. That thing for which it was intended.
The man heard the voice and the song even after the singer had rested. It was writ upon his heart, his mind, and his soul. He followed the song as he wandered with expectant Joy through the beautiful creation the singer had given him. The man, the song, and the singer were in harmony. And the singer was pleased.
Then one day, he saw it. Strange fruit. Pieces of truth. A gift for the deserving. “I must have it,” the man said. “For I am tired of wandering and the new beauty of this gift weighs on my heart like rain.” And he reached out his hand to pluck it from the tree.
The voice was insistent. “This is not for you,” it said. “Real truth casts no shadows. These pieces of truth are mired in darkness, hidden in confusion, and bathed in rebellion.”
The man became angry. “I am worthy!” he shouted. “And who are you to tell me what to do; you, who created this garden, this tree, this fruit? What is its purpose if not for my own enjoyment?”
“I have commanded it,” the voice said. “You must obey,” it said, with a hint of sadness.
“I will not,” the man said. And he took the fruit. And he put it in his pocket to carry with him as he wandered the endless expanse of beauty.
But the song in his heart changed. Strange rhythms and discordant notes filled his ears. The beautiful melody darkened and receded. It grew quiet. And the darkness and the silence, that wrong-ness which was never meant to be, again took root.
The man gasped in horror, realizing what he had done. He no longer wanted the gift. He meant to throw it away, to cast it down, to bring back the beauty of the song before it was too late. But the fruit was no longer there. It had disappeared. It was writ upon his heart, his mind, and his soul where the beautiful song once rested.
The song grew quiet. The man cried out against the coming silence. The song faded. He shielded his face against the sad and terrible darkness. And the song disappeared.
And the man was cold. And the man was naked. And the man was alone. All that remained was the memory of the song that once was, and that loud, terrible silence.
(the lights go dark)