The first ray hits the fabric. The spectators settle in their assigned seats.
The pixels, each of different colours, find their respective place on the fabric. Each of the pixels, programmed and intermeshed, collaborate to form pre-decided familiar shapes. The pixels dance in sync dutifully, on the directions of the maestro above. Each teaming up with other multitudes of lights to form images, magically moving to curl up the lips to smile, to shed the hanging tear and to dilate the pupils to form the illusion of wonder. As the myriads of emotion play on its surface, the fabric comes alive.
The actors played out their characters. The story is a unfathomable mystery yet. It carries within its bosom, the possibilities to burat into a humorous comedy or spawn into a grieving tragedy or unravel an exciting odyssey. The dancing pixels fabricate emotions on the fabric which find resonance in the hearts of the audience. The tear is surreptitiously wiped, the laughter noisily shared and the excitement chewed along with the skin beneath the nail. As the story grips the fantasy, every subjective eye starts to live the life of the characters, coloured in the tinge of the beholders script.
The spectators fuse into the pixel, not only seeing the dance of the shapes, but become the shape itself. Each one identifying with the feelings which warmed up the screen. Each observing mind, merging with the thoughts and intent behind the actions of flat beings on the fabric.
The story eventually frenzied into the climax. It is a moment of judgment. One of the kings have to die, the black or the white. The colours stay loyal to the light as projected by the overhead unseen beam, irrespective to the effect it has on the beholding eyes. The presence or absence of the pixels form the opposites, thus evoking love or hate in the filtered eyes. The hackles on each neck is raised and the atmosphere is charged, baying for action. The emotions are no longer, just the projection by the maestro in the projection room…they are real. They burn the neural pathways urging the physical being to act. The hero fights for the cause as does the villain. The good and the bad is coloured by the beam of light. The hero triumphs over the villain. The pent up emotions of the crowd escape in a loud cheer. But the reel still whirs. There is still some story left.
It indeed is the dreaded tragedy. It was what the spectators dreaded, but somehow expected. The director of this motion picture is known only to make tragedies. Eventually, all lighter moments are lost from memory and just the miseries are remembered. The cheer of the heroic triumph is marred by the bleeding hero, fatally wounded in the ultimate duel. The villain lies slain, but the ebb of life drains off the hero too.
The bodies on the seats responds. They feel drained too. The lips curl, the eyes shed the tear and the pupils dilate in wonder. The two being are one, the flat beings on the screen and the flesh and blood on the seats.
Hero breaths the last in the arms of his love. His soul rising and disappearing beyond the limits of the screen. The story ends as the pixels freeze on the face of the hero’s love, staring in helpless grief. The maestro ceases the flow of light and fabric is lifeless again.
The spectators are stupefied by the drama, still wishing the fabric to come alive. To once again see the face of their love, they stay at their respective seats reluctant to let go of the illusion. The feelings still raw keep the bonds strong. Just one last look is all that they desired.
But the ushers of the cinema are on job to move these bodies out of this world of drama. There are others waiting in line to witness the drama once again. They are eager to see the same ‘fabric’, once again, come Alive.