Not physically, but spiritually. The infinite horizon pulls inward. The endless rows of seats collapse into a single, warm point of light. The dancer realizes: The stage was never infinite because it was large. It was infinite because it contained every version of me I refused to become.
It was called Mugen—the infinite. Its floorboards were made of polished obsidian that reflected not the face of the performer, but the face of who they might become. Its curtains were woven from the silk of dying stars, and its spotlight was the unblinking eye of a forgotten god. mugen stage
The Final Curtain Call
You are always on it. The performance never ends. The only question is whether you will dance. Not physically, but spiritually