I don’t know what to say.
You came all this way, across the invisible miles, to hear me (me!) say … something. What?
Something wise? Beautiful? Deep? Life-altering? Funny? True? Maybe you came here out of boredom. Maybe someone told you the trip is worth it – don’t ask, just go, they said. It’s possible you didn’t intend to come here at all, you happened upon this place by accident.
But you’re here now. Waiting. Waiting for me.
I imagine those eyes looking up on my hand-made stage, full of wonder, anticipation. You are so patient. (Thank you for that.) As the seconds tick away, turning a pregnant pause into an awkward gap, I imagine some of those eyes beginning to shift uncomfortably, worrying that I may not come through.
Let’s consider the possibility: me, standing here holding a bag of words to hand out like leftover Halloween candy. You, hungry and waiting. I turn the bag upside-down, dump it out on the wooden platform with one soft dull flump.
That’s it. One lonely forlorn word.
I straighten up, look out at all of your eyes, finding as many to peer into as possible, and say:
This is for you. Please, make something of it.
And then I exit stage left with my empty bag. The silence fades into muffled sounds of shuffling and exclamation as you begin to rise from cushioned seats and make your way back into the world, as you begin to make something of it.
The truth is the real performance comes later – when you take that one word and make something of it.
I cannot wait for you to leave me speechless, to leave me saying with exuberant wonder, I don’t know what to say.