The Opium of Old Age

Inside a low-ceiling theatre, almost 20 children are on display. Each child enacts their own monologue and sing harmoniously in new language wherein the most delicate of human dynamics are protrusions of ineffable truths. All are in progress. One child silently celebrates the coarse sound of construction paper split by small dull scissors while another marvels at the discovery of a 4th layer of skin he found on his hand with the application of cool white potion used formerly as an adhesive. A broad window long into the room offers the set a backdrop of a vast green field with rolling knolls that lead into a lumbering horizon. The azure sky allows the sun to shine through-reflecting immensely on the clouds. The clouds themselves become suns without circumference; free of form. They beam white light- sparsely inhabiting the sky in horizontal streaks that navigate at slow speeds. This light obscures the shape of the child standing in front of the window-turning her into a frozen silhouette. She is humming. The well dressed audience in their twilight sit in the back of the room. Throughout the opus it is common that within such naive banter, words of stark wisdom can resound within the hearts of the audience. Gestant with feelings of empathic nostalgia and regret for a life of lessons unlearned, the Old produce silent tears and hold their applause as to not disrupt the performance.