Every velvet cushioned seat empty but one. In the very last row, the last seat, farthermost to the left, alone I sit. Wondering... Waiting... Imagining... What if I were to walk the stage? To dance upon it, and perform Shakespearean words to please crowds of people. If I were to act would I inspire others to fall in love with stage? With all of the drama, the beauty, and the tragedy?

I look up from my hands. The expansive stage roars up in front of me, begging to be brought back to life by the amazement that are plays. It's hard wood creaking and aching to be touched. I reach out hand out but pull it back with fear. It's roaring creak grows louder in ears then silences. I close my eyes.  
Actors of all shapes and types fill my head. They laugh, and die, only to be brought back in another scene as another character, or the next night in the same way. They're life seemingly eternal. Such beautiful creatures actors are. How I long to travel in their crowd. My eyes open.
The room empty yet so full of life. I stand from my seat, clapping for the beautiful performance played out in my head. Tears stream my face, for in my head I play all parts. The parts of the beautiful main character, the part of their lover scorned, the outside filler characters, and the many people in the audience. I am on the outside, but I long to be on the inside.
I take my seat again, but this time more relaxed. Resting my legs on the seat in front of me. I close my eyes and listen to the peaceful silence change into the shuffling of feet, the swish of dresses as women walk, the click of heels, the thud of the curtain drop, and the squeak of it move up again. The whispers of the audiences anticipation dances around me. I open my eyes to find I am still alone. Still simply an on looker of this beautiful art.
The stage roars once more, begging and pleading with me to walk upon it. To let it feel something in this empty and alone place. I simply must abide, I understand it's cries and pain.   At the steps of the stage I freeze. Once upon it I will stand behind its beaming lights as many before have done. In front of the dropped curtain. Slowly I step up the stairs, they seem longer then they ever have before. My feet heavier but yet my body lighter. I will understand what it is to stand on the stage.
  Heart racing I make my first move, light as a feather I make my way to the curtains, my hands feeling their soft velvety grasp. It wishes to envelop me, and hold me hostage forever. I almost dare to let it. The firm of the stage beneath me turns to wobbling oceans, then dramatic dance floors, and dungeons for traitors. I turn to look out upon the empty rows of chairs, but I cannot see them. The light blinds me like the sun, but it's warm embrace keeps me from running. Running and never returning.
I lay down upon the stage and let its many arms hold me down. The ceiling looms over me, like a midnight sky. I picture the moon and stars. Maybe that is why these actors don't mind laying down to die. The beauty to be seen above is almost equal to the beauty of the act itself. I close my eyes once more, and let the scene in my head play out around me. A woman crouches next to me, pretending to cry, for I was her dear child, and now here I lay, dead, until tomorrow, then I shall die all over again. The crowds silent, letting her agony wash over all of them. Some shuffle in there seats over the tension. The woman stands from my side and rushes off stage, towards where the man who killed me went. The curtain drops. The scene is over.
I open my eyes and look around me. I find myself somehow behind the curtain, away from the empty audience and the blinding warm lights.  I imagine the floor must of pulled me, or I rolled myself without noticing. Sitting up I check the time on my watch, almost time to open the theater. I stand and walk back to the very last seat, in the very last row, farther must to the left. I grab the broom I left there and walk through a side door leading beneath the stage.   Light catching my face and I see the reflection of myself in a cracked shard of mirror. The hideous monster staring back at me is to much the handle. I cover my face and retreat to a dark corner.
  I can hear the heels tap from the arrival of the actors, many call hello to me and thank me from cleaning so well, but I do not answer. I never answer. I stay beneath the stage never emerged and see the actors or viewers.