read to me i love you

I should be working on a script, but I’m not.
I’m sitting here typing to myself, and you, because I’m overcome with the need to connect with someone.

I’ve been busy.

I have a new job. A real job. That I’m not qualified for but which I got anyway. And which I’m ridiculously good at. At a desk with a computer and a new wardrobe of clothes that can, if you squint, pass for conservative but are really just longer/looser/duller/neater versions of what I already own, worn without coloured socks and other accoutrements. 

I’m also working on a play. An Australian premiere of a new translation of a classic play. The one with the orchard and the rich folk who lose all their money and cry about it. By the Russian guy who hated the theatre and died of TB.
I have a lead role; the one who cries the most and feels unwanted and doesn’t get the guy in the end… What a stretch.

And finally, I’m Assistant Director to someone I greatly admire, who is famous, on a play that he wrote, which is being performed by a highly respected theatre company. And although this actually means I’m assisting the director, not assisting with directing, it’s still a wonderful opportunity, which I created for myself through sheer determination and a shitload of temerity.

BUT.
Whilst all these things are wondrous and blissful and point to my ability to get things done and disregard obstacles others would consider insurmountable, I’ve been feeling lost and disconsolate. And the theatre work, which I’m usually so desperate for, is turning me in on myself and forcing me deeper into my own head, my bedroom, my bed.
Why?
I don’t know.

But I do know I’ve been feeling so lonely it’s eating me alive and all I want to do is disappear into a crowd so big I’ll never find my way out, and where it’s never dark, and where it’s never quiet.

Or maybe that’s my own idea of hell.

Or Tokyo.

I don’t know.

But I do know that if I don't pull myself out of this inevitable descent into the mire of self-pity and melancholia, things could get very bad. Worse even than they have in the past. Because this time there is no cause for my retreat and therefore it cannot be rationalised away.

So to aid in my recovery, I leave myself, and you, with this. It's not particularly cool, but it's bittersweet beautiful and that's kind of how I'm feeling right now.