Phantom

6 PM, the Shakespeare’s Globe, sunshine lit the yard of the noisy theatre.

The Thames outside Globe flows quietly. The light of the setting sun reflects on the ripple. This river never stopped for anything for thousands of years, while everything else changed.

On the stage, Hamlet officially started.

In the beginning, I shrank again the wall with tiredness and sleepiness—I still lost in the comedy As You Like It, not ready for a tragedy. I can faintly see my friends in crowds in front of the stage; hear the actor’s roar but can’t see their tears shed. I saw the “ghost” of the old king walked around on the stage; the actor who used sign language communicated in the way which means more than language; the queen stalked along with noble smile; the king’s fury when he saw the play-within-a-play. Time filed while I do not even notice that.

“The tragedy should always be more impressive,” I said to myself. I felt this until the moment when the poor Ophelia distributed flowers to the audience and other actors. It reminds me of an old Chinese saying, “Loss of heart is the greatest tragedy”. Other main characters died one by one, and I heard the sound of crying. The play isolated the whole theatre from the outside world, everyone was Hamlet, his sorrow and sadness also stayed together with us.

Is drama the illusion of life or is life the phantom of drama?

9:30 PM, the sunset glow tinted the sky to powder blue, the Thames was still flowing outside the theatre.

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