There was a spotlight shaded red, pointed
toward the center of the black floor,
surrounded by black walls, sheltered by a black ceiling from
the slow pitter patter of February sleet falling outside
the theatre we actors had aptly named The Black Box.
It was February in the south and for once the weather had been
But the windowless space that encapsulated the box provided no
implications to the winter wonderland forging itself outside.
The only escape would come from the worlds in my head
and the realities I projected on set.
Did anybody ever really believe they were someone else? Or was it
the unknown secret that the key to reciprocating Our own Towns is by making an audience
believe that you believe
when ya’ really don’t.
What you believe is true becomes truth when you present it on the stage,
and what proceeds to weave and unfold as the story flows
Is a journey nobody can deny existed.
But I’ll probably never know what’s real here.
I’ll just have to believe that what I hold true is true
it will be.
Like the frozen roads waiting outside this hot black stage
Truths will become a thick frozen slab stuck to my personal history,
The door seemed to call to us as we struggled to remain in
the red overglow.
It would be a simple task to switch my presence from the red heat to a blue freeze.
To believe in what I believe.
And so I ran, to think outside of this box,
to feel the warmth that can only be cherished in the winter wind chill.
WIth a coat over my shoulders trudging through the thick Okie snow,
I truly believed in me.