Thursday, July 24, 2008

Written when I woke up this morning...


I dreamed last night of acting. Not even of real acting, feet planted on the hard wood, eyes caked with make up and false lashes blinking from the hot lights… but just of the act of acting. Picking up a beautiful small Samuel French paperback. A yellow one. One in which lived a person I wanted to be. And as I opened it, my lips wrapped around some words, tongue tripping on consonants, my curious brow unfurrowed so to open myself to the possibility of another person with another brow to jump from the text into my blood. My heart raced with the delicacy of choice verbs and nouns, of characters whom I understood deeply though they have a separate vocabulary. I breathed it.

And though it was just a dream, it made me think that passions of any kind are nothing but sleeping (or awake) lovers. My heart has never lacked passions. If there is one thing there has always been an abundance of, it is passions. Passions for activities, passions for people, for the powers of those acitivities, for quiet and nature and loud and wild and unabandonment, but there is simply not enough time in the day to entertain all of my passions on a regular basis. But I realize that they don’t necessarily die. Acting still lives in my veins, and is an extremely domineering lover. I miss it, but I fear if I were to give over to it, I would be lost. I mean, where are my loyalties anymore? Acting may be my oldest lover, truth be told, but she is a broke and fickle lover, never providing me with the future always promised. I have other passions that trump her… but still she goes on sleeping in my heart…

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