The Harlequin

Marceau leans on air. His ethereal stage, a muse. Walls and limits come and go. Rubber, his body knowing what it wants. His muscle’s tale born in luster under polished light. Each spectator becomes a believer, each observer willingly accepts, how hands make intangible dimensions, how legs scale vaporous stairways. You should never ask what they saw. This myth maker made by his allegory. This illusion maker made by his parable. The converts so silent in their seats. The stage of rollick, while viewers undergo the idyllic. He ends knowing each convert summoned their symbolic order. He ends relying on collective unconsciousness. He finishes aware his act exists only in the mind of each beholder.