"Life is a solitary cell whose walls are mirrors."
Somewhere in Manhattan, New York, the city of lights, there is a line. Traffic, noise, flashing lights and busy people slowly fade out of view and out of sight. A dark solace and all the musty familiarity of grandeur drape around the line, sheltering it from the world.
The line lives in a theatre, a sanctuary of tears, sweat, wealth, poverty and performance. From behind every crease in the upholstery and glowing hot spotlight there is a story of a person who has devoted their very being to an impossible dream. The stories of the lighting technician, musical director, playwright and featured actor are woven through the acoustic walls and tucked behind the seats, remaining there for eternity.
The line itself is rather inconspicuous. It's long, white, glossy and perfectly straight. The line is wholly unimportant to the disposable audience that fills the theatre each night, dispensing laughter, shock, sorrow and applause.
And yet to some, the line is the world. The line is wishes and hopes and dreams. It is suffering and reward. The line is difficult to get on, harder to stay on, and impossible to get off of. The line cuts through your heart and your mind, pushing your body to accomplish impossible feats. The line is lunges, turns, kicks, leaps and turmoil. You can leave the line, leave the theatre, even leave the city, but the business refuses to leave you. You devote yourself to the line and the line becomes your master, always one step ahead.
There is a woman too old to dance on the line. There is a boy too young to. There is a couple that fears the line will separate them forever. These stories too are reflected off the soulless mirrors that taunt you from behind.
Dancing is a talent lent to you for far too little time. You can do one more single rotation turn, one more split leap, but eventually your age will catch you, your injuries will trick you and the line will evict you from your treasured spot.
Somewhere in Manhattan, New York, the city of lights, there is a dancer. The dancer has one goal and no sense and no logic. The dancer has only an unexplainable love for their craft and a single dream- to be on the line. And the line waits, solitary and inconspicuous for the dancers to join it. And the curtains pull back, the stage is lit up and all the stories fade into one, as The Line begins the show.