11.28.2016 -- Email Draft

Found this email draft today…wonder who I was planning on sending it to?

EMAIL DRAFT 11.28.2016

EMPTY SUBJECT

Listen listen to me. That's all anybody wants right? That's all we want, that's all I want. But listen, who are we talking to? Largely ourselves, parts of ourselves that we hate or covet. Our family, the creators. Our friends, the troupe. Our haters, the audience. The people that vote for us to fail. The moment, fading. 

I want to be an actor because it's the most pure profession, purest form of humanity. It's intense ugliness and beauty spewed out in words and facial expressions. It's raw, yes, but explicative and childlike wonder-like with its colors and bruises. Actors are human bruises, embodied. Remnants of a story that was. They make it 'is'. Is now. Is this all? Is it though?

I got real close to casually leaning into a train tonight. Being done. Over. Curtain or not. What's next, it's a tapping out, an intense tapping out hoping the Next round is better. Fuller? Cleaner. 

Movement and motion of the real thing happening In front of your eyes is a wonderment. The way it just passes. The way it makes music of your feelings and the cover is done and we applaud its passing. 

If I felt content would I be me? Am I only An animal of discontentment? I can't escape the horror of being white and discontent. I hate that. 

Why do your eyes hurt so much when you cry. Maybe it's unnatural to cry when it's not right to. Maybe your body knows when to cry and when not to and when you're not supposed to, your eyes hurt from it. Hurt from rim to pupil. Edge to center. 

What happens when you lose the you you champion and you're left with a shell you shuffle, skuttle I mean kick around the ground down the alley of city. A shell of a peanut maybe. It was boiled and eaten and maybe enjoyed. Hopefully. But, now it's a shell and it's burnt and battered. A battered beaten up shell, touched by fire but left with ash. 

I need to feel better. I need to let it go and just do the day. But I don't want to live another day without purpose. Without a seed of why I'm here. When did my shell have its seed removed? 

I didn't bring value to anybody today. I just took. Acting lets me give back while still taking from my own bowl, my own well. Oh well, another day? I'm not good at math but 365 * 100 is only 36,500 days. If you're lucky. 

I guess big picture, the smart ones find peace and the stupid ones find nothing. 

The smart ones find peace and the stupid ones find nothing.