Where does the forgotten doll go once she is tossed under the bed? When the dust collects, cakes, crusts over permanently closed eyes? When everyone grows too green and the imagination, the vibrancy, the whimsy, ceases to exist and fades into the background like a theater hand? But if all the world’s a stage, where do all the actors go when they’ve been used up? When they can’t pretend anymore and the audience whistles no longer mask the sound of windows shattering and buildings crumbling in the street, paint chips fluttering like moths. What does the artist do with broken hands and dimming vision? When the hues bleed together and there’s poison in the watercolor? Where do you find a muse in a pile of corpses? What do you do at the end of the day when you look in the mirror and the only thing distinguishing you from them is that you keep on creating?
Ali Kochik is a fourth-year English major with minors in Journalism
and Women’s & Gender Studies. AK908461@wcupa.edu