Opera house on Fire is the metaphor I think about when my mind wonders to my life. the grandeur of the opera house, its perfectly etched wooden pillars, the curtain on the stage woven in fine red silk shadows over the proletariat crowd that scurries to the front row seats where the singing becomes distorted by the noise of the orchestra. The women and men of upper and middle class with their long flurry dresses stitched together by the hands of the working class.

As the beautiful voluptuous women that in her years struggled to go singing classes, appears from back stage, face powdered, mole as black as night, sings. The crowd in all spheres of social life become silenced by the magnitude and power of her voice. The beauty and spectacularity of it is more melodious than that chirp of the morning blue jay. Her passion extends out from her. She is not herself she is someone else. She sees the smiles and laughs in the audience as they are bedazzled by her. She pivots her body from side to side in order for the audience to see her beauty. As she hits the perfect note derived from heaven and as she closes her eyes to create a great dramatic effect. Smoke appears. 

An idiot with a cheap pack of gas station cigarettes forgot to use the ashtray next to him and put out his bud on the pristine wooden floor carved by Michael Angelo himself. The opera house became a quick fuse. The poor men and women thrown the dice of poverty became quick victims that fueled the fire's ferocity. The upper class bourgeoisie burnt slower. Their dresses catching ablaze first, until the hair, body parts and accessories not theirs lit up like fireworks on Bastille day. 

But the opera woman, opens her eyes but doesn't flinch, doesn't scream she just remains still. She begins to sing louder her voice reaching from a beautiful baritone to a magnificent tenor. Her eyes reflected the fury of the fire, her stage presence transcended that of the heavens. She personified the screams of burning victims and as she finishes she throws herself from the stage into the burning audience smiling all the way to the end.

This is the reality I face everyday I wake up, everyday I have to support and bear things in this world that  I didn't deserve. Alcohol helps me bear it but it's never the answer to problems that do not originate from this human plane of existence. I think it comes from the energy and lives our parents lived as people. People call it Karma I just call it life.

How to get over the voices of people in your head who are probably dead castigating you and telling what you are and need to do? I rather not think about it because the constant solution I see is that opera woman in the opera house. Do I need to jump into the fire to feel peace and quiet? Must I take away the voices by burning myself? I'm not sure but I'm still trying to figure out. Well, hey onto the next bottle of alcohol for now...