Quicksand

This is a quicksand, ladies and gentlemen.
A quicksand.

Welcome and make yourself comfortable: no one will get out of here chaste. All of you will pass through it, some will drown immediately, some will get drawn in slowly, making the shipwreck pleasantly longer for us, the audience. Well, some of you will get off with only a few grains of sand on your jacket, but it’s more of an exception, and, as we know, there are more rules than exceptions.

Your humble compère ended up being a luckless sailor on this dry land, too. Can you see those dark clots of sandy soil under my fingernails? I can’t get rid of them for hundreds of nights already, and when I’m  starting to hope that I’ll get up in the morning with clean hands, when I’m starting to believe that all has passed… (covers his face with hands) And after a strange-looking girl holding a pair of carnations – unusual ones, I can be mistaken, but I swear they looked green – made me pass through it once again, I’ve lost all my hopes to stop hiding my hands in pockets every time I leave home.

That’s why I have nothing more to do than to stand here, in front of you, ladies and gentlemen, and look as you all drown. Inch by inch. Maybe one day I’ll recognize a familiar face between you, but I won’t even give you a hint. Maybe one day you will be the ones to drown me once again. But it will be one day. And now…
(makes an inviting gesture)
Please!
But do not forget that you already have no choice.

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~ by Anna on May 11, 2010.

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