The Projectionist

He sits in the shadows and waits, unnoticed. As the audience enters, slowly slipping into their seats, oozing like treacle over the auditorium, filling every corner, nook and cranny, the projectionist sits and waits. He waits and watches, unobserved, his piercing gaze never once returned, as the baying public writhes in anticipation of the treats they will soon feast upon, not caring where they come from. But he knows…

 

The projectionist knows it is he who delivers this cornucopia of delights to the ravenous crowd, night in, night out, with never a single word of acknowledgement spoken. He just waits. Waits for his time to shine. To shine the light and give the whooping and whistling pack of unobservant observers what they want, what he knows they want, all the time wanting to show something quite different, a different reality, not the one the people want, not the one the people expect, but a real, a genuine reality. But he just sits and waits…

 

He sits and waits and looks at his dimly glowing monitor and ponders. On what would happen. What would happen if he shone the other light. The light that casts no shadows to hide in, that casts a different type of shadow, a silhouette. A silhouette that shows his real form, not the distortion he projects to give the slavering wolves what they need to see. What they need to see lest, in alarm, they pounce and devour the projectionist, the non-conformist, the outsider…

 

The outsider who sits on high and looks down at the swarm of conformers, whilst all the while it is they who look down on him. On him who remains silent, forever mute. Mute for fear of misspeaking, of spooking the flock. Mute because he has learnt not to speak, learnt not to draw attention to himself, attention that would cause him to disintegrate, to dissolve into the very air itself, the light from all those searching eyes crawling into his insides and burning him from within. The light that he normally projects, turned back on him, choking him. So he remains mute, his voice stolen by the projection, and says nothing…

 

Says nothing as the projection runs before him, hiding what he really wants. What he really wants to show, what he really wants to say, but that he must shelve with all the other forbidden projections he has collected over the years. The years that have been and gone, that the projectionist has crawled his way through never letting out a single sound, not even a whisper as he sits in his box and presses play and shines the light he knows he has to shine. The light that pleases the jeering masses so greatly. The masses who do not even know he is there. Who do not even know there is another reality. A reality where the projectionist does have a voice, a language, a way to tell the truth to a special few. A special few who will never know they are special, will never know who the projectionist is, who watches as they lap up the fake light he knows must never be extinguished…

 

And so he shines that light and the crowd whoops and whistles again and the projectionist just sits and waits and never says a word…

 

 

 

(Image source: http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-QH1sxj2L0GQ/UCLxIz8Nm1I/AAAAAAAAAIU/i1t3Pq7R-k0/s1600/Screen+Shot+2012-08-08+at+6.24.37+PM.png )

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