it takes the whole day for the universe to prepare one’s emotions for anything.
acting is the ability to be someone else other than yourself–if not using who you are to give life to other characters, he thinks. it’s this thought that makes him well aware that he’s acting as he goes throughout the day. he zones out often–psychology dictates that this act is because one does not want to live in their current reality. maybe he doesn’t want to, he thinks. he really would rather be alone. he laughs an internal laughter remembering the quote “he who likes/prefers silence is either a god or a beats.” an unruly restlessness somewhere in the pocket of his soul is willing to prove he is beastly and Aristotle might question his being a god but the sympathy and empathy and all other emotions in this spectrum of his feelings assure him maybe in him, somewhere, he might be a god. how else would he be arrested mentally and physically by having to talk about sexual abuse-during the early hours of morning even. the gentleness of the budding hours map into the soft bud of private parts being discussed and the harsh toned views expressed by his colleague and the act of sexual abuse itself morph into some beast ruining his entire morning all together. thankfully he has a nice meal during lunch. he enjoys it. he knows, now, only a few of these things can rise above the wave of impending doom he feels and his lunch proved to be one of those. the rest of the day is pocketed into absences, vacuums, black holes and zone outs throughout the quotidian of life and day.
it’s early evening, he is sitting amongst other actors and actresses to prepare for a reading of a play his friend wrote. anything to help out a friend, he thinks. after all, friendship is about giving. and they say it’s not what’s been given that matters but the heart that gives it. it’s the latter thought that makes him take up another script to be edited, from another friend though he really does not want to. to this grey buffet of emotions, guilt is also served and he has some.
there’s a theory that life and living are spiral. in this theory it’s believed there is no beginning nor end-that we all return to one point we’ve gone past a number of times in order to learn again whatever it is we’ve learnt before.he has accepted that he lives in impending doom but this day wants to prove him right. what’s that they say? life is how you think it? anyway, the drag of the morning, returns. this particular day is spiraling, he thinks as he skims over the script. it’s as if he’s reliving the conversation he had with his colleague earlier in the morning. the feeling returns as well-sits and takes off its shoes to make itself comfortable. he scoots over a little on his chair then pushes the chair forward to align himself in the circle he’s seated at. his character is that of an abuser. this abuser coerces a pregnant teenage prostitute. he hoodwinks this jail bait into marrying him only to abuse her and later molest the daughter she’s pregnant with at the beginning of the play. his chest tightens and there are frost bites in his throat. every actor removes themselves from the character, he reminds himself. the reading proceeds.
the second script spirals. he is, at this point, dizzy. his character is that of a step father who rapes his step-daughter. how grim, he thinks. in this play he impregnates his wife and his daughter but he has the decency to spare a month in between these acts. before he can wrap his head around the whole script it’s his turn to read. he finds out, as the play progresses that he commits suicide. potent, he thinks yet again. but still, he loves acting. the latter thought, pizza and soda after the readings cheer him up and he’s sunshine happy.
life will always preamp you, he thinks as he stares at the text message he has just received. he is now at home with a friend whom he’d been laughing with minutes before. said friend feels, like an oarfish, the earth plates shift in his friend’s mood and asks what’s wrong. in this pause, the oarfish swims to shore.
“my cousin committed suicide today.”
silence. earthquake. tsunami. the life of his cousin flashes before his eyes. he begins to wish, to wonder, to question, to doubt and to hurt all at the same time. he wants to feel the pain. he wants to crouch to his knees or maybe pace about… anything to show he has just received grave news. nothing comes. some lessons, no matter how many times they spiral past, we learn,with brilliance, how to master them. but his lack of hurt is not brilliance, in fact it’s a nuance. people are not the same and they don’t mean the same to us and he should shrivel in pain but life has banged him hard earlier in the year so much so almost everything is a numb, including this. what hurts him though is the fact that he’s texting the sister to his cousin who has committed suicide. he can’t decide if her emojis are a lack of knowledge or bravado. he can’t tell her, he’s been asked by his current company not to. and if he could what exactly would he say? it’s not the most pleasant conversation to have, he knows this from experience. but it hurts him a thousand mine trucks on his chest, if he could feel it. or maybe his disbelief over his cousin’s commuting suicide is what keeps him from telling her. or maybe he realizes the fragility of the bud of ignorance she’s in-something he wishes for himself and therefore cannot take away from anyone else, not even if his life depends on it. to do so, to force himself and his words into her innocence like that would be beastly-a rape of some sort and he’s no beast.