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4 weeks ago - 
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The sense of an ending
I’ve made a decision-begrudgingly of course-to give up on acting. Yeah I know tumblr in all its infinite wisdom tells us that there’s a difference between giving up and letting go but it’s all just a game of meaningless semantics. Giving up is giving up by any other name.
I have to do it first and foremost for medical reasons. I can’t go into the details but let’s just say that it’s a condition that would cripple any actor in the industry. Okay not literally cripple-my legs are fine thank you-but you know what I mean. Some of you will know what I’m talking about but for those who don’t…you don’t have to know. You’re probably better off not knowing that something as ugly, debilitating and life-sucking as this exists. I don’t talk about it because it makes me self-conscious and I don’t want to be defined by this condition but that dosen’t mean that I’m okay. I’m keeping my beautiful head above water but you don’t see the ugliness beneath the surface. I don’t want you to. No one deserves ugliness. Ugliness is autocratic and selfish. It takes and takes and gives back nothing. I also don’t like it when people start seeing me as a martyr or worse still, when they invoke all the other sufferings on earth to show me how inconsequential my pain is to them. I hope I’m not coming across as a self-pitying wimp. Yes I am a self-pitying wimp actually but only in the safety of my room. Don’t worry, I’m not dying. I don’t have a terminal illness. I won’t be checking into a hospice and writing up wills anytime soon. Physical death isn’t the only kind of death around. It’s actually quite overrated. There are other kinds of deaths that are just as major and heartrending such as the death of a dream. No one holds grand, pompous funerals for these kinds of deaths. But they matter all the same. So yes, goodbye dream. I’m not sure if I’ll miss having you around. You gave me both hopeful and hopeless days. You made me happy and unspeakably sad. Go away and find someone else to haunt.I’m done with you.I can’t love something that dosen’t love me back.
I don’t know how to describe what I feel. But while watching Will Eno’s Middletown at Lasalle two nights ago, I finally found the words to explain what I’ve been feeling for a long time. I think I’m going to call it poetic sadness. Yes I know it’s very Kundera at his most indulgent. It’s like a sadness that’s pervasive but not overwhelmingly so. You feel it acutely but you’re also able to distill it into quiet, contemplative thoughts. It roars but it roars silently like the eye of a hurricane. You can look down on it. You’re above it but you can never run away from it. It never leaves. It glows like sunken treasure that’s visible but out of reach.
I hate reality. I hate how it chafes against all the ideals I’ve held on to and protected. But it’s time to move on. It’s time to get real, whatever that means.
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“I can never read all the books I want; I can never be all the people I want and live all the lives I want. I can never train myself in all the skills I want. And why do I want? I want to live and feel all the shades, tones and variations of mental and physical experience possible in life. And I am horribly limited.”
– Sylvia Plath
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