I’ve just watched La Jeune Homme et la Mort. It’s a ballet that lasts for eighteen minutes. Essentially, the plot goes as follows- A young man is pretty cruelly emotionally abused by his lover, who mocks and taunts him until she drives him to suicide. Death, a woman in a long white gown, comes for him, hooded and masked… and she removes the mask, revealing that she was his lover all along. She forces the dead man to wear her mask and makes him walk into the night, alone, desperately not wanting to.
It made me think.
Did he ever really have a choice? Was he always going to die?
That mask, placed so damningly over his face, was disturbing. He was dead both inside and out, and didn’t have even a face to show his torture.
It occurred to me that this is how I feel at my darkest moments. This exactly, with death’s brutal embrace calling me.
I am not going to let her in.