I'm angry.

Damn the stage. Stop its existence. Send its glory to hell. Take the lime-light victory and demean it. Rip the pride from the actor. What are you achieving on that stage that you can't win in your real life? What do you want so badly from that piece of wood that has a rug on top of it with a few colored splices of light on it? WHAT DO YOU WANT?! What is it that you want so badly from that stage!? I want freedom. I want confidence. I want that elusive, yet true, perfection. The unquestioned decisions, the leap into something that will not only catch me, but also send me towards the heavens. Blind my foresight, steal my predictions and give me Now. Send my one way street and blindness into a swooping fall, a turnpike rocketing of . . . Now. Better. Perfection. Fun. Oh Fun. Just Fun. I want you back. I want an escape. I want to spasm out of my head. Give me nothing but the terror of a freshly ripped heart convulsing in the desperation in my ears and flood my two brain with it. The peace of exhilaration. And yet, I am bound. Because my inability. My criticiality. The very things I so despairingly try and escape from are my chains. So Damn the Stage! Damn the lies of imagination. My fettered life will scream, and bite in spite towards this treatment. This cruel irony, the thing that makes Chevov laugh so. That by the things that make me a better person, I have been damned from the thing that I want to perfect me. Damn me. For I have not become enough to live.