Frustration

Voice-overs for choreographed movement

 
A:
Here. Here is where I want it. Like this. And then here. And then everywhere. Slowly, slowly, each to its time. But first, right now, right here.
B:
I know this curve, this arc of stretching need. I know what happens, and how, and when. I do, and I am done.
A:
And so: Now. Here. And yes, here.
B:
I know the shape, the motion, the words. But there is something else. I listen intently, and watch, and try to understand. As always, I strain with the effort.
A:
Here, isn’t it? Isn’t it? Well, no, maybe not. Something’s not right. Maybe here? No. Maybe here, then? Or is it…?
B:
The effort of trying exhausts me, but I must understand, I must. The why of it. The why not of it.
A:
I don’t know now. Was it like this…or like this? Was it here… or here?
B:
The feeling of the doing. The doing crushed beneath the weight of something else. Memories? Expectations? This instant has got to be now!
A:
Here — there — where — I don’t know anymore, I just don’t!
B:
It isn’t now.
A:
It’s lost.
B:
Over.
A:
Over.
B:
Why are you looking at me like that?
A:
I knew this would happen.
B:
So did I.
A:
I knew you’d do this.
B:
I did what I always do. But then, so did you.
A:
What you always do: hold up your magnifier and burn off the moment.
B:
For me, not for you.
A:
For me as well. Your scrutiny is like the sun in the desert: a merciless glare.
B:
Oh really? Shall I tell you about you?
A:
Now it’s gone.
B:
Shall I tell you? Do you want to hear?
A:
One irretrievable moment: gone.
B:
You don’t, do you? No, of course, you wouldn’t.
A:
And not the only one gone.
B:
I’m tired, very tired.
A:
Others will follow. The procession is endless.
B:
Even my eyes ache. Even my fingertips.
A:
And I am part of that procession.
B:
And I want to go to sleep.