The Actor And The Savages

I saw the scene full of flowers and I saw the Actor choking, drowned in petals, leaves, which entered his mouth, nostrils, ears, covering him until nothing was left of him. Poor Actor.
What a death! Smothered by the flowers of the audience who loved him, who came young and old together to see him, to applaud him, to shout his name, to show their love and admiration for his talent, for the beauty of his art, for the gift he had been bestowed upon to give life to words.
The crowd had come with good intentions, with admirable intentions; the public came with huge bouquets of flowers, live intense flowers, fragrant flowers destined to celebrate the art, the artist, the Actor.
The audience had come to hear him, the Actor, to drink his words and memorize them, learn them by heart, to be transmitted to their children and their children’s children as a priceless heritage.
The flowers were meant to be only a humble homage to the shrine of Art, a humble homage to the Actor who toiled on stage to enlighten their minds, their souls.
What happened, though? How did the Actor get killed by his audience?

– We thought he was still acting, so we did not panic and continued to throw flowers on stage. Not even when we saw that he did not exist any more, we did not stop, we thought that it was part of the script and that he would reappear at one point or another, smiling happily, thanking us for the flowers and applause.

– Somehow I had a doubt when I heard him sobbing… already he had tears on his face, way before we cast the first flowers… I felt that something was wrong.
– And why didn’t you react?
– Well, we’ve been taught so by our parents since childhood, not to disturb the stage: to throw flowers, to manifest our love for art and for actors by throwing flowers at them on stage, but not to disturb the stage under any circumstances.
– When did you realize that the actor was dead?
– Well, we did not really understand. Even now I do not think that the actor is dead. I think he is behind the scenes laughing at the trick he played on us. Really, is he dead? No, who knows where he is hiding right now.

– He’s dead. Certainly. He was pronounced dead on the stage, suffocated by the flowers thrown by his spectators.
– What a spectacular farce! And I thought he was acting. He really was suffocating, wasn’t he, when gasping for air under the mountain of flowers? Wait a moment, I’ll tell you…

And saying these promising, somehow premonitory words, the spectator took his smart-phone out of his pocket, examined his Facebook account and confirmed:
– Yeah, he’s dead, all right! Here, the President said the Actor was killed at the end of his act by the fans throwing flowers at him. Yeah, that’s what I call a declaration! Wait a minute, here’s one stating that ‘the Actor was killed at the end of his act by the savages from the net’.
I mean, how come? ‘Savages from the net’? I mean are we ‘the savages’ who killed the Actor? Who is the filthy weasel making a statement like that?

– Show it to me, I’ll catch him, engaged another spectator, agitated. Well well, this is it!
Son of a gun, I’ll show him ‘savages from the net’! Idiot, quadruped, frustrated, anarchist are you searching for trouble?

He never even cared for the Actor, never came to see him, never got involved! He stood quietly at home, on his sofa with his beer next to him and now he’s got the nerve to write on Facebook that we, we, the spectators loyal to the Actor, we are ‘the savages on the net who killed him! ‘
Well, does he know who we are?

– I wrote like this: ‘You, castrate, Gypsy sucker, do you know what you’re talking about? ‘ It’s good? To make him understand that he must be clearly informed.

They argued long time on Facebook. Meanwhile, the Actor was buried, everything was declared as a trivial accident on a provincial stage and the trivial fact was forgotten.

On Facebook the fight is still going on.

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I am a citizen of this wonderful world. I live in the language of every country, in the poetry of every language. I was born once with the word. I dream your dreams, I think your thoughts, I feel your fear, pain, joy, sorrow, doubt, serenity. I exist because you create me. Keep me alive in your poems and we shall live happily ever after.Maria Magdalena Biela
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