“It’s easy like midnight cravings, / creeping up on you in the wee hours / when you know you should sleep / (but can’t) …”
Like any good story, Lin-Manuel Miranda’s “Hamilton” left me with a few lingering questions—not just about Alexander, but about myself, both as a writer and a human being.
If you can make me believe I’ve fallen down the rabbit-hole into Wonderland, tripped and somersaulted head-over-heels into some strange and beautiful otherworld, I will forgive you for any sin you commit against the art of the narrative. At least temporarily.
“My eyes open to a world of sand and shadows. I stand in the middle of a clearing, with foreign woods at my back and nothing but black space before me. I don’t know where I am or how I got here.”
“Watching me walking my warping path / you never knew who I was, but you guessed . . .”
“. . . I realized the water’s surface did not reflect either of our faces. It was as Ashlyn had said – this was no mirror, no flat mimicry of reality. This was a window, a gateway… but to where, I did not know.”
“I had no limbs, nor voice, nor pulse. I was prey to the ocean current, to every turn of the tide. The man was right. I was no longer human . . .”