Crystalline, The Pond And I See The Stones

I see a future peppered with the clotted idea that creativity sectioned off in the world,
Location, location, location,
You joke, you prod,
But the world that I see is cut like that, sweet sugar cookie severance,
Hot out of the oven of idea slinging, of creation,
Where do the artists flock to?
This is where I should be, not some dull drudge of rules and dreams that were stepped on by the boot of a man who knew no difference between oil and acrylic.
I refuse to be hammered into a mold because it is what people want to see. Where is the theatre that sparked imaginations and created daily in children the energy and excitement to get up and do the impossible, to be another?
Where is that theatre?
Where is the theatre that drilled in me a well of desire to know and grow in all things I touched; the theatre that taught me the peace inside a hug?
Where is the theatre that taught me to obey the rules that should be obeyed but only when it makes sense to obey them?
Where is the theatre that gave me the wisdom to carry through the late nights of teenage torment?
Where is the theatre that kissed me in the dark?
Where is the theatre that taught me the value of a human life and more history than any man?
Where is the theatre that cried for creativity, construction, and when it was given, it rewarded upon it’s constituents prizes in the form of new challenges that beg for more work, more passion, more creation?
When did we stop?
When did we stop asking for more than what was called for us?
When did we stop giving our soul for something as organic and alive as we?
When did we stop reaching for the ineffable and accepting that we will never grasp the stars in our palms?
When?
When did we stop?
When did it stop?
Where is the theatre, when did it stop?