One is born to be free. There – in a silent moment –, between life and death. There he is the freest. He still has not chosen, and he has not been chosen. He does not have a name. No voice, no apple of eye. He does not have. Then the body shouts, and the man begins to cry. From here – from this crying – he builds his barriers till the end of his life. He needs language. Well, he will have language. He needs love and anger. Well, he hates and loves. Food, drink, air. He needs the other one. Well, he takes away the other. He is needed by the other one. Well, he is taken away. Every movement he does, every word he says, every look he look around with, they look for that old, free, endless, never returning freedom, they wish this, they demand it. And every moves, and every word and everything, everything… – each pushes him away right from there, right from that, farther and farther. As long as he gets so far from his perfect freedom as he returns to there. There he is in silence again, and he does not move. He is again the unknown, numb player.
Tell me if we could call this theatre after all, could we recognize ourselves in the end?
balog józsef