I’ve grown tired of performing. Face to Face with the absurd.
In the morning, I put on my costume and curl up in a ball on my bed until I have to go to work. I open the door and the bright heat of new orleans envelopes me like az warm wet blanket. I can’t breath. This is a dull dream. I’ve spent a lot of money on rent so I could play a part in this absurd comedy/ tragedy. About two years ago, however, I kept forgetting my lines, I was slow to respond. As time went on, I realized I could no longer act like I use to. I’d become bitter, disillusioned and it showed. I think Sartre had something to say about this. I’d settle for a bigger dressing room, maybe some Nike shoes, and a nice baseball hat of my favorite team. I’ll leave the tag on it like Minnie Pearl. I’ll look in the mirror and I’ll feel better until I need a new costume, a new role, new lines–lines that go beneath the surface–lines free of words. I will stand in the corner reciting my lines. I will stop for nothing. I will stop for no one. These are my lines. My sounds–a cacophonous soliloquy.


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