Scene Twelve.

It's hilarious to me the way the things I write about in my plays end up actually applying to my life, even though I wrote them about a year before. It's mostly the scene with Jack and Gloria in the hospital from The Sidewalk - their discussion on the sort of existential separation of mind from soul and body, and the gigantic BITCH that is the decision making process. I sit here on my bed, way too early in the morning, and wonder about what I should do about so many things in my life that aren't what they should be, or what I expect them to be, or what I wish they would be. I have tired and tried and tried to come up with a solution to get me out of this frustrated rut, but nothing seems wiling or able to excavate the mines and lift my little cart up to sunshine. It's not that I'm depressed by my dilemmas, but it is a severe weight on my shoulders that I want lifted, that I want fixed, that I want to return to some state or normalcy. My life has changed infinitely in the past year: I made some really great friends that I cherish quite a bit, I've seen (and created) some fantastic theatre that has only reinvigorated my passion for this craft, and I met and began an amazing relationship with someone that I consider to be one of the most perfect, amazing, wonderful human beings in the world. But therein lies my quandary. I never stopped to think that it could all be too good to be true, but lo and behold it snuck up on me and proved that my thinking about it does not stop things from taking a turn for the worse - but that's an overstatement: from creating new challenges to get over in my life, things I have to beat the shit out of in order to get back to the good. Break open the coconut with the machete so you can drink the juice, Lane. I'm trying, Blog Voice. I'm trying.