I'm Sorry.

Blegh. Today was rotten. I was rotten. I am rotten. This whole project has come to head, my lines are nearly memorized, and I need only finish(start) my research paper, practice a bit, study Hamlet, and not kill anything til Thursday and I'll be set. Yet, even though it's quite doable, I got (and am) incredibly stressed today. It's not the workload, although that is indeed immense. It's not that I put it off until the last moment, for I always do that and use the stress as a focusing device. No, it's the underlying realization that this entire project is symbolic of my philosophical situation. I shouldn't really care about my grade, but I do. I'm essentially guaranteed a free, full ride to UT so it just doesn't matter. But it does to me. A very significant part is that I feel obligated to my group members, whose grades also depend on this. I have so many lines, though, I'm worried about messing up and destroying so much hard work. Still, it's not even that. I look at the previous presentations, and no offense to any parties involved, they just weren't as... long, for lack of a better word. We actually try to do most of our play instead of condensing it into a small time frame. We cut some scenes, but a very great deal remains. Of course, that very great deal prominently features me, so I have a lot to do. But it's all... unneeded. The complexities, the ideas, the desire for "perfection" or a better experience or what have you, it's all pointless. Our grade won't be improved. We could have put minimal effort in and been fine. But we didn't. Albeit, the complexities do make it somewhat fun, the obligations and responsibility I feel just weighs on me like thousands of tons of lead in my soul. There's no question, I have to do all this. And yet, it won't make any difference.

A play is, as it really does say in The Tempest, "an insubstantial pageant faded, leaving not a Rack behind. We are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life rounded with a sleep." (That's from memory, by the way) . We plan, we work, we memorize, we act, we pour our souls into the performance and what then? A group of people, already bored and daydreaming, is mildly entertained for one brief hour. After that, the set is returned, the lines forgotten, everything is as if the play had never been, save memory. And even that fades. It's a lot of work for little reward. You have to enjoy the process to make it worthwhile. And I can enjoy it, I'm just constantly reminded of the futility. We'll eventually forget it, it won't really be that great, I'll perform my pitiful role lifelessly, with feigned superficial emotion, and finally we'll move on. It's just too close to reality. It reminds me of my persistent delusion, trying to make the entire "production" seem worthwhile, when all the work has very little value.

Once again, though, I'm brought to the final verdict that one much enjoy the process. So I must remember this and strive to do so. *sigh* I just broke today. I was tired of trying to be responsible, trying to be controlled, trying to stem the horrible thoughts, feelings, and actions. Why should I make such an effort to understand, to help when it's needed, when it's as if so little is reciprocated? Because I want to. Why do I respond to the outpourings of one's soul with an elaborate, detailed response instead of an irreverent quip as most would? Because I want to. Why do try to act nicely and treat people as I'd like to be treated? Because I blasted want to. When I told Bonnie to "go to Hell", I didn't feel remorse, satisfaction, or vindication. I didn't really feel anything. What was the point in being cruel? There wasn't. And yet, Heaven forbid I expect the same from anyone else. In my negative mood, the stupidity and obliviousness of everyone just seemed to shine through. People are cruel. People are stupid. People just don't care. I used to think I was incredibly apathetic, but it turns out I actually care. I care about important things. Not always myself, not about being right, not about being the victor but about happiness, of myself and others. It's just hard when it seems like others are unable to reciprocate my feelings. When Bonnie's childish, guilt-tripping, and unreasonable, I feel like I ought to have a right to be like that too. Perhaps that's not it. I just feel frustration that I can't change it. I'm reminded of Erinelle, always saying she's sorry to end the argument. Why? Because no one else will. Life just shouldn't be that way. Why should one person always feel an obligation to be the "bigger man." The "smaller" ones never learn that they should. And yet, when you stand up, you're villanized. People refuse to change. Only you change, descending to their level. This afternoon, I didn't want to commits act of hate. I wanted to be loving, to be needy, to collapse on someone and have them take away my problems or tell me it didn't matter or something. But I can't do that. It's not the way things are done.

*sigh* And now I can't expect any of you to understand. Heck, the thought to try won't even enter the mind of the person(s) who really need to. It's infuriating. Living by example only goes so far. Perhaps some of you can grasp the despair and anger triggered by an existential pitfall. Perhaps some of you know what it's like to try to be nice, understanding, and helpful and seemingly never have it fully reciprocated. Maybe I just don't see it. Maybe I just don't accept help or know how to seek it. Maybe I know no one can help me but myself. Because my greatest burden is one with no right answer but "enjoy." And I want someone to answer it. It needs an answer. By all that is just, holy, and good there should be an answer other than "You're right. Just enjoy it while it lasts." Yet, as this time, the last time, the time before that and so on there isn't. All I can do is get over it. As I fall, my mind screams "Pull up! Pull up" yet I keep plunging. Perhaps the problem demands recognition if I ignore it too long.

I want to give up. I want to stop fighting, stop trying, stop living, stop dying each and every moment of existence. I want there to be permanence, to be something I can fall onto that will catch me and hold me up. But there's nothing. Before and after, there's only nothing. Or so my mind says, if that fickle advisor is to be believed. Is life but a precursor to nothing? Are we really "rounded with a Sleep?" Someone make me ignore the question. Someone distract me, cheer me, just be near me on some level so I won't feel so isolated and alone. You are, you must be, yet here I am sitting at my computer with no proof of anyone or thing's existence but myself. There is no formula, no equation that stands against the existential question. There is nothing. Before and after. But now, now I must play my role, bow to scattered, lukewarm applause, and depart the stage not to be seen again. A tragedy, comedy, romance, history it matters not. Why must I perform? Because my peers demand it? Because they need my presence and without me will plunge into despair and fail? Perhaps they can cope without me, they profess otherwise, but I'm not too sure. Is it because there's no other choice? There's always a choice. Perform or don't perform. And then, perform poorly or make it all it's worth. The more effort that is put in, the more that will come out. And then, looking back, one can be fully satisfied and move on to whatever else "outrageous fortune" throws our way. I'm sorry for what lines I've dropped, what wrong words I've spoken, what cues I've missed, what scenes my heart just wasn't in. But, all in all, the performance will be pretty good, don't you think?

I may not be a good actor, a good writer, a good teacher, a good lover, a good person, a good anything but then "nothing is good or bad but thinking makes it so." Play your parts to your soul's content. I've lines to memorize.