The staging for 'Monsters' is all about me getting free. In the

Host: The stage was a cathedral of light and pulse. The air trembled with bass, fog, and the fever of a thousand voices waiting in the dark. The spotlights still hid their power, sleeping in silver beams that hung above like gods ready to descend.
Backstage, mirrors glowed with the reflection of sequins and breathless eyes. The smell of metal, makeup, and electricity filled the lungs like prophecy.

Jack leaned against a stack of flight cases, arms folded, his face ghosted with half-light from the stage monitors. Jeeny, her headset around her neck, stood nearby — clipboard in hand, eyes bright, watching the curtain sway like a heartbeat between fear and freedom.

Jeeny: “Saara Aalto once said, ‘The staging for “Monsters” is all about me getting free. In the beginning I'm like tied, in a dark place... until I am scared no more, and I'm taking the lead of my life, I'm being the queen of my life, I'm ruling the world! In the end I'm taking a risk, but I'm taking the leap of faith.’”

Jack: (smirking faintly) “Sounds like every artist’s autobiography wrapped in glitter and stage smoke.”

Jeeny: “No — it’s more than showmanship. It’s transformation. That’s what performance is, Jack. She’s not just singing. She’s shedding her fear in real time.”

Jack: “Fear as choreography.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. You start bound by your monsters — your insecurities, your past — and every note, every movement, is another step toward liberation.”

Host: The muffled sound of the audience rose and fell beyond the curtains, a living ocean of anticipation. The stage crew moved like shadows, silent and efficient, adjusting cables, lights, dreams.

Jack: “You ever think artists use the stage as therapy? Like, the more they perform, the more they heal?”

Jeeny: “Of course. But it’s not therapy — it’s alchemy. You take pain, melt it down with rhythm and courage, and pour it back out as light.”

Jack: “And the crowd becomes the mirror.”

Jeeny: “Yes — and sometimes the cure. When the audience sings back, it’s not just applause. It’s validation that your vulnerability has value.”

Host: The first few notes of the intro pulsed through the monitors. Low, haunting, like a door opening in the dark. The stagehands gave the cue. Jeeny’s voice dropped to a whisper.

Jeeny: “That’s the beginning she was talking about — the dark place, tied down. Every performer starts there. The first breath before courage catches up.”

Jack: “And what’s the leap of faith?”

Jeeny: “It’s the moment she stops performing the story and starts living it.”

Jack: “So art isn’t imitation — it’s invocation.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. You don’t act free until you become free.”

Host: The lights dimmed. Smoke rolled across the stage floor like fog crawling over a battlefield. From the shadows, a figure rose — Saara, glimmering in black and silver, arms bound in ribbons that gleamed like serpents.

The crowd screamed. The first lyric broke through — fragile at first, then soaring.

Jeeny: (softly, to herself) “There it is. The fear breaking.”

Jack: “Looks like flight disguised as performance.”

Jeeny: “Because that’s what courage looks like — awkward, shining, trembling, unstoppable.”

Host: On stage, Saara tore the ribbons loose mid-chorus. The sound system thundered; the crowd rose. The lights exploded into gold. Her voice filled the hall, raw and radiant — not the sound of perfection, but of defiance.

Jack: “You ever notice how freedom’s never graceful? It’s violent. You have to tear your way out.”

Jeeny: “And then you realize the cage was never locked — it was just familiar.”

Jack: “Familiar’s worse than fear. It’s comfortable.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s why the leap matters — because it’s the only way to prove to yourself that the ground you left behind wasn’t solid after all.”

Host: The performance swelled. The chorus hit — the crowd became a choir. You could feel the energy rippling like wind through fire, the collective catharsis of thousands of people remembering what courage felt like.

Jack: “You think she knows how symbolic this is? Or is she just doing her job?”

Jeeny: “You can’t fake that kind of vulnerability. You don’t survive that spotlight unless you mean every syllable.”

Jack: “So, it’s faith — not performance.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Faith in yourself. Faith that even if you fall, you’ll land as someone new.”

Host: The bridge hit — quieter now. Saara stood center stage, the lights tight on her face. Her eyes glimmered with sweat and conviction.

Jeeny: (whispering) “That’s the leap. Right there.”

Jack: “You can see it in her — the second she stops being afraid of the fall.”

Jeeny: “That’s when every artist becomes sovereign. Not because they’ve conquered fear, but because they’ve stopped negotiating with it.”

Host: The final note rang out — long, electric, triumphant. The crowd roared, a wave of thunder and love. Saara threw her arms wide, as if embracing the storm she’d created.

The smoke cleared. The stage lights dimmed. For a moment, there was only breath. Then — release.

Jack: “She called it ‘ruling the world.’ But maybe what she really meant was ruling herself.”

Jeeny: “Yes. And once you rule yourself, the world follows naturally.”

Jack: “You know, there’s something holy about it — standing on stage and daring to say, ‘I am free,’ even if your voice shakes.”

Jeeny: “That’s what makes it art. Not the perfection — the risk. The willingness to show your becoming.”

Host: The applause continued — long after the lights dimmed, long after the sound faded. Freedom has an afterglow; courage has a resonance.

Jeeny: “You ever notice how some performances feel like exorcisms?”

Jack: “Yeah. But instead of casting out demons, you’re learning to dance with them.”

Jeeny: “That’s what Saara means when she says she’s ‘taking the lead of her life.’ She’s not destroying the monsters — she’s making them part of the choreography.”

Jack: “So, fear becomes rhythm. Wounds become wings.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s the leap of faith.”

Host: The lights in the hall came back on. The magic retreated, but its echo stayed — a vibration in the chest, a memory of flight.

Jack: “You think everyone in that audience felt it? Or just the ones who needed to?”

Jeeny: “Only the ones brave enough to admit they’re still tied somewhere.”

Jack: “Then maybe that’s the secret — art doesn’t free you. It invites you to free yourself.”

Jeeny: “And it gives you permission to call the leap beautiful.”

Host: The stage crew began clearing props. The space slowly returned to its ordinary shape, but something lingered — not quite silence, not quite sound.

And in that fading light, Saara Aalto’s words remained like a heartbeat behind the curtain:

That art is liberation disguised as spectacle.
That fear is not an end, but a beginning.
That the journey from darkness to sovereignty
is not about escaping the monsters,
but about becoming the queen who tames them.

Host: Jeeny gathered her clipboard, glancing once more at the empty stage.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack, maybe every leap of faith is really just us rehearsing for freedom.”

Jack: (smiling) “Then may we never stop performing.”

Host: Outside, the last of the stage lights faded,
and the night reclaimed the world —
quiet, infinite,
and full of waiting wings.