My apologies to those who are new to this site. What follows next is a somewhat depressing reflection on the end of the play. Usually I write happy, funny things of wit and … humour. Go figure.
I’m quiet right now. Very quiet. I should be working on Linear Algebra homework, since we have a test tomorrow, but I’m not. I should be completing the take home test that is due tomorrow, but I sit here listening to Radiohead and typing up what should prove to be a wasteful parade of letters.
I’m quiet because yet another play is over and, with the closing of another theatrical display, comes the depression. It never fails. Large production or small one, every play ends with this sadness that comes over me.
It could be the endorphins. Acting gets me high. It’s like sucking straight O2 for hours. It’s like hanging upside down and then spinning in a circle for 10 minutes. It’s like holding your breath for as long as you can and then doing it again over and over. It’s that kind of high. So after 4 nights of intense high, maybe my body doesn’t want to let go. Maybe my body NEEDS it.
It could be the people. A lot of those people in the play I won’t see ever again. Like I told some of them, “Unless I start hanging out at the Middle School picking up chicks, this will probably be goodbye.” Not that the thought hasn’t passed my mind, but I have no idea where the Middle School in this town is. I felt this after the first play. I didn’t know Heather or Jamie at all before ‘Heaven and Hell’ additions. And now look. Just look.
It could be more than all that, though. It could be that the play is a living, breathing (the most clichï¿½ way to say ‘alive’) organism. A play is comprised of so many people : writers, directors, musicians, constructors, actors. Could it be that when a play ends, the thing dies? The people involved are severed from each other. It’s like going steady for a month and then having no contact at all. It’s like having the walk of your life and getting smoked by a semi truck. It’s like enjoying the trees on a glorious hunt until the back of your head meets a 12 gauge.
I don’t really mean to be so morbid. It’s just the things that come to mind right now. Future readers, be not disheartened. Go into my archives section and check out what’s there. Or enjoy Pizza What ?, Train of Thought, or Lessons Jack Beuer Taught Me.
In the meantime, I think I’m going to go do some homework, listen to Radiohead, and try my best to ignore myself.