The Greatest Showman #1194 - Light and Shadow Stop

The world condenses into a stage: a microphone, a wooden chair, a guitar, and a scattering of lights.

All that's needed is one person and their voice. From this moment, the boundaries of time and space vanish. You stand here, and you can travel across the world, live a thousand lives. His gaze is drawn to the figure in the center of the stage.

Focused on adjusting the strings, the man exudes an aura of desolation and weariness, as though he'd blend into the crowd unnoticed. Perhaps, just moments ago, he was the drunken wanderer who slumped under the chair. But now, something has changed. Something that makes him distinct. His face is obscured, but there's no mistaking the feeling of loneliness, alienation, sorrow, and pride that emanates from him. Once noticed, it's impossible to look away.

A soft glow envelops him, and without warning, his fingertips strum the strings. The chords are simple, nothing extraordinary at first, but the musical symbols flutter between his fingers, passing through light and shadow. Time halts, and the chatter fades, leaving only the gentle sounds of a wine cup, the soft clink of spoons and coffee cups, a reverberation in the air.

In this trance-like state, the music swells—growing louder, filling the space—and then, the voice.

"Hang me, oh, hang me, and I shall die soon."

The first line emerges, deep and gravelly, its richness rippling in the melody. The guitar's gentle pluck, like the teasing fingers of a bamboo palm against soft velvet, resonates with warmth and tenderness, stirring emotions that fall softly on the heart, gripping every thought.

"I don't care about hanging, poor man, but I don't want to be trapped in a grave forever. I've traveled all over the world."

In the flowing water-like cadence of the singing, there's a raw freedom, yet within the trailing notes, an undeniable sadness lingers. The voice touches the heartstrings as though plucking the strings of a piano, drawing you deeper into the haze of the moment.

He has seen the world, but now, he must face the cold and eternal darkness of a tomb. Death itself isn't as terrifying as the loss of freedom. The trial of hanging, the approach of death, hold no fear. What he mourns is the loss of freedom—the soaring heights of dreams, unencumbered by chains.

A soft sigh escapes the crowd as the voice lingers, capturing every heart. The figure on the stage is framed by a halo of light, eyes hidden beneath heavy lashes, his face a portrait of suffering and pride. His features bear the marks of time's trials. In the soft glow, every corner of the world seems to open, and you are pulled along, traveling through his voice.

"Footprints all over Cape Girardeau, and corners of Arkansas; wandering Cape Girardeau, and corners of Arkansas. I'm so damn hungry, poor man, a straw can hide me. I've traveled through thousands of mountains and rivers."

It feels like an illusion, but within the soft glow, there's a faint, upward curve at the corner of his mouth, a shadow of past wanderings. Cape Girardeau, Arkansas—locations not grand or magnificent, but forever imprinted in the mind. Those winds, those trees, the sunshine, and the skies. A memory of happiness despite poverty, hunger, and deprivation.

That happiness was pure, untainted, and simple. Even in the absence of food or shelter, there was joy. As the melody continues, you close your eyes, swaying gently to the rhythm, lost in the music that carries you on a journey across the world.

"Climb to the peak, where I stand firm; climb to the peak, where I stand firm. Carrying a reciprocator on my shoulders and a dagger in my hand, sorry, I have reached the ends of the earth."

The weight of reality strikes again, as the lyrics turn to the brutality of war. The Vietnam War calls young men to serve their country, but in the end, they are mere numbers. The names of those lost fade into nothingness. The harsh truths of war emerge, hidden behind the lofty ideals.

For this man, he would rather die than remain shackled by the loss of freedom. Even in death, there is something real to hold on to.

The gas lamp bar falls silent. In the still air, time stands still. The sorrow in the voice is palpable, and yet indescribable. It's as if the heart within has stopped beating, weighed down by grief.

His face, worn and weathered, still carries a trace of loneliness.

The light shines bright, isolating him from the world, yet he remains unbowed. With a straightened back and an open chest, he hums softly, exuding a quiet dedication and unwavering belief.

Proud and lofty, gentle and dazzling, low-key and magnificent.

No grand gestures, no change of expression—just him, sitting quietly, his voice weaving a story that draws the audience into his world.

Listen. His singing has wings, soaring freely.

"The noose was around my neck, and they hung me up high."

A lump forms in your throat as his voice resonates softly, a smile at the corner of his mouth. "The noose was around my neck, and they hung me high. As I was dying, the last words came in my ears: It won't be long before it's all over. Poor me, I've traveled the world."

A tear gathers at the corner of your eye, unexpected and warm. It falls, unnoticed, as the melody continues.

Only those who have lived through the Vietnam War, those who truly understand the 1960s, those scarred by time and experience, can hear the depths of emotion in his song. When freedom disappears, when dreams fade, when beliefs dissolve, the soul dies long before the body.

"So hang me, oh, hang me, and I shall die soon."

The room feels heavy, the air thick with emotion. You can't breathe, can't speak, and yet you're transfixed by his voice.

The figure on stage continues, undisturbed by the world around him. The clink of dishes, the chatter of indifferent patrons—all fade into the background. He hums, lost in his own thoughts, as the audience watches, captivated by the power of his song.

The warmth of the beer, the cigarette burning to the fingertips, the coffee cooling in its cup—none of it matters now. The world outside him is forgotten, and the night drifts on, untouched by time.

In the haze of smoke, the simplicity of the chords, the quiet grandeur of the story, all fade away—leaving only his voice. The world is his, even if only for tonight.

As for tomorrow? It seems irrelevant. What matters is: Have you ever truly traveled the world? Have you ever felt free? Have you ever dared to dream?

With a final hum, he sings:

"Hang me, oh, hang me, and I shall die."