This is a piece that I wrote for a friend. He's in the theater and is constantly reenacting some of his parts for me since I can't be there to see him live. We were talking one night and he brought up how much he enjoys my writing and said that he would love to perform something I wrote. That got my gears turning. I'd be more than happy to write something specifically for him - but what is the question.
This piece had started out as one idea in my brain and quickly transformed into another.
-I hope you enjoy it.
This piece had started out as one idea in my brain and quickly transformed into another.
-I hope you enjoy it.
Scene: A tiny studio apartment in the city. It's night. The walls are covered in drawings and pictures of anything and everything: a house here, a flower there, a sunset, cityscape. Portraits of people smiling, laughing, dancing. In some the subject is stoic, nothing to take in but the characteristics of their faces. A piano sits quietly in a corner, sheet music spread around it on the floor like cards spread on a table for a high stakes poker game.
Across from the piano is a closed door, a man sitting on the floor to the side, facing out at us. He has his legs drawn up to his chest. One elbow rests on his leg, his head resting on that one arm as if the strength in that one arm is what he clings to. Without that arm, he is nothing, he will dissolve into himself. He is tired. It is late, and he's been sitting on the outside of this closed door for far too long. He drags a hand through his hair, shakes his head a little, contemplating. He sighs heavily as he looks up and surveys his surroundings. He focuses on the pictures, shakes his head once more, stands up and begins:
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"She's in there again. Locked herself in the bathroom, turned the music up loud to convince herself that I can't hear her crying over the sounds. I've been trying to get her to come out for hours now. She won't though. She'll stay in there all night long. She'll pound on the floor. If she's had an exceptionally bad day she might scream out once in a while.
It's been a bad day, I can tell. What she listens to is a reflection of how she's feeling. I've learned that by now. She's playing hardcore rock tonight - the band is playing their instruments in a way that makes you feel their anguish. The anger reverberates through each strum of the guitar, each perfectly timed bang of a stick against a drum. The lyrics are barely understandable. You don't need to know the words to tell that this man has had his heart ripped out...is Watching it bleed out on the floor in front of him while he continues to violently play chords in order to keep the beat going.
It's been years, and it never gets better. It's not like this all of the time. We can go months without having a night like this. Normally she's fine ; she's amazing - It seems like her soul emanates from her skin, reflecting off of everything to make the whole world shine in her light.
She is truly a magical person. She is kind and caring, always willing to help whenever necessary. She likes to play practical jokes on people and she drinks coffee as if it were her life force. She's talented, too. God, is she talented! All of this? The amazing things that I'm surrounded by? She can draw something that she sees once. She can take a picture and capture the very essence of the thing or person. With a single click of a camera she is able to eloquently tell a story, make you think, make you feel. And her music? Oh dear, God, her music! She can sit at that piano and play for hours. She could play Chopsticks all day and I would never tire of it. I'm not sure if I'm in love with what she creates so much as how she looks when she creates these glorious things. She's beautiful, surely a sight to be seen.
Tonight is not a masterpiece creating night. Tonight is a broken night. She never talks about it with me. That doesn't mean I don't know what's going on. She won't come out until I creep off to bed. Sometimes she won't come out at all. I think she somehow falls asleep on the cold tile floor of that bathroom. Or maybe laid in the cold porcelain of the claw foot tub. I wonder if she sometimes wishes for death. I wouldn't be surprised - from the things that I hear going on in there.
It's wrong for me to admit, I know...sometimes I wish it would happen. Twisted, right?
It's like this though - I love her. God, I love her so much. I would do anything for her if it meant that she never went through a night like this again though. A creature as marvelous as she shouldn't have to endure the torture that her shitty brain puts her through.
That's the trouble here. What is going on here is simply the result of a chemical imbalance that refuses to be rectified. No matter how many pills she forces herself to take, no matter how many hours are accumulated behind the doors of a therapist's office...no Matter how many pretty things it is she creates...none Of that will ever quiet the chaos that she, and only she, experiences inside of her head.
If death meant that she never has to feel like this again...is That really so bad? It's a disease, this thing that's wrong with her. It's a horrible, ugly thing that is eating away at her insides, making it's way to her outsides. No different than any other terminal condition, making the sufferer do just that...suffer Through a series of unfortunate symptoms and side effects related to something that they have no control over.
In some places, it is acceptable to ask a physician to help you die if you have a certain condition. Things like cancer, diseases with no hope of a positive prognosis. There's no help for this, though. There are no doctors rushing to my bathroom door, telling her "We're here for you, it's okay to do it. We know you're thinking of just ending it, and we're here to help you, to allow you to die with dignity." It's a shame, picking and choosing like that when we can't ever really put ourselves in someone else's shoes.
You know what it is, what sets her off? She sees all of this beauty in the world around her. She sees that she can create it, and she can shape it, morph it to her will. She takes pictures of all of these beautiful people and beautiful places and it makes her sad. She doesn't think she's as beautiful as the things she makes or sees. Lord knows she's wrong. She just can't see it. I try to help her see it. Sometimes I think she almost believes me. No matter how hard I try, she doesn't see herself how I see her. That God damned brain of hers!
Try as I might, I can't give her all of the beautiful things that she wants in the world. Some day, I will give her a house...but It won't be nearly as good as she deserves. I will be able to take her on trips, but not to the exotic, mysterious places that I know her soul longs to explore. I will work night and day to tirelessly save for that fairy tale wedding I know that she craves. Together, we will create a wonderful, beautiful life...but It will never be enough for her. I love her to the ends of the universe and back, and that will never be enough.
She wants more than I....more Than this world could ever give her. It's in her nature to reach for the stars and then just keep going once she gets there. She wants to be the beat that drives the music, the harmony that holds it all together. She wants to be the lyrics that tie it all together, that makes other people's hair stand on end when they hear the final composition. She wants to live in all of the beautiful places, save all of those who need saving, and write it all down, take pictures of it all and write about it so that she can share it with every human on this earth.
Desire like that eats away at you. She realizes that she is stuck in a life that has certain limits to it. No matter how hard she fights, she cannot escape the boundaries that the universe has set for her. She is like a dog stuck in a cage that is six sizes too small for her. All the time she is fighting, pushing her limits and doing whatever it takes to make the bars bend even just the slightest bit. After time, she wears down and she gets weary and this is where we end up.
She doesn't have to say it, I just know it. This is where we will always end up...until Her brain gets the best of her. One day, those chemicals and those neurons will take hold. They will finish festering under her perfectly freckled skin and she will simply explode from the horror of it all.
Until that day, this is how it is. With her on one side of the door, listening to music so loud in hopes of drowning out the thoughts that she's dying to get rid of in her head....and Me....here On the other side...hoping And praying and wishing that some day, for the love of God, that it will all just be over. I would rather love her endlessly through this battle, have it be over for her than have her experience the disappointment of life. I've loved her this hard, this long. I can't just walk away. I love her that much. Is that so foolish of me?"
Across from the piano is a closed door, a man sitting on the floor to the side, facing out at us. He has his legs drawn up to his chest. One elbow rests on his leg, his head resting on that one arm as if the strength in that one arm is what he clings to. Without that arm, he is nothing, he will dissolve into himself. He is tired. It is late, and he's been sitting on the outside of this closed door for far too long. He drags a hand through his hair, shakes his head a little, contemplating. He sighs heavily as he looks up and surveys his surroundings. He focuses on the pictures, shakes his head once more, stands up and begins:
----------
"She's in there again. Locked herself in the bathroom, turned the music up loud to convince herself that I can't hear her crying over the sounds. I've been trying to get her to come out for hours now. She won't though. She'll stay in there all night long. She'll pound on the floor. If she's had an exceptionally bad day she might scream out once in a while.
It's been a bad day, I can tell. What she listens to is a reflection of how she's feeling. I've learned that by now. She's playing hardcore rock tonight - the band is playing their instruments in a way that makes you feel their anguish. The anger reverberates through each strum of the guitar, each perfectly timed bang of a stick against a drum. The lyrics are barely understandable. You don't need to know the words to tell that this man has had his heart ripped out...is Watching it bleed out on the floor in front of him while he continues to violently play chords in order to keep the beat going.
It's been years, and it never gets better. It's not like this all of the time. We can go months without having a night like this. Normally she's fine ; she's amazing - It seems like her soul emanates from her skin, reflecting off of everything to make the whole world shine in her light.
She is truly a magical person. She is kind and caring, always willing to help whenever necessary. She likes to play practical jokes on people and she drinks coffee as if it were her life force. She's talented, too. God, is she talented! All of this? The amazing things that I'm surrounded by? She can draw something that she sees once. She can take a picture and capture the very essence of the thing or person. With a single click of a camera she is able to eloquently tell a story, make you think, make you feel. And her music? Oh dear, God, her music! She can sit at that piano and play for hours. She could play Chopsticks all day and I would never tire of it. I'm not sure if I'm in love with what she creates so much as how she looks when she creates these glorious things. She's beautiful, surely a sight to be seen.
Tonight is not a masterpiece creating night. Tonight is a broken night. She never talks about it with me. That doesn't mean I don't know what's going on. She won't come out until I creep off to bed. Sometimes she won't come out at all. I think she somehow falls asleep on the cold tile floor of that bathroom. Or maybe laid in the cold porcelain of the claw foot tub. I wonder if she sometimes wishes for death. I wouldn't be surprised - from the things that I hear going on in there.
It's wrong for me to admit, I know...sometimes I wish it would happen. Twisted, right?
It's like this though - I love her. God, I love her so much. I would do anything for her if it meant that she never went through a night like this again though. A creature as marvelous as she shouldn't have to endure the torture that her shitty brain puts her through.
That's the trouble here. What is going on here is simply the result of a chemical imbalance that refuses to be rectified. No matter how many pills she forces herself to take, no matter how many hours are accumulated behind the doors of a therapist's office...no Matter how many pretty things it is she creates...none Of that will ever quiet the chaos that she, and only she, experiences inside of her head.
If death meant that she never has to feel like this again...is That really so bad? It's a disease, this thing that's wrong with her. It's a horrible, ugly thing that is eating away at her insides, making it's way to her outsides. No different than any other terminal condition, making the sufferer do just that...suffer Through a series of unfortunate symptoms and side effects related to something that they have no control over.
In some places, it is acceptable to ask a physician to help you die if you have a certain condition. Things like cancer, diseases with no hope of a positive prognosis. There's no help for this, though. There are no doctors rushing to my bathroom door, telling her "We're here for you, it's okay to do it. We know you're thinking of just ending it, and we're here to help you, to allow you to die with dignity." It's a shame, picking and choosing like that when we can't ever really put ourselves in someone else's shoes.
You know what it is, what sets her off? She sees all of this beauty in the world around her. She sees that she can create it, and she can shape it, morph it to her will. She takes pictures of all of these beautiful people and beautiful places and it makes her sad. She doesn't think she's as beautiful as the things she makes or sees. Lord knows she's wrong. She just can't see it. I try to help her see it. Sometimes I think she almost believes me. No matter how hard I try, she doesn't see herself how I see her. That God damned brain of hers!
Try as I might, I can't give her all of the beautiful things that she wants in the world. Some day, I will give her a house...but It won't be nearly as good as she deserves. I will be able to take her on trips, but not to the exotic, mysterious places that I know her soul longs to explore. I will work night and day to tirelessly save for that fairy tale wedding I know that she craves. Together, we will create a wonderful, beautiful life...but It will never be enough for her. I love her to the ends of the universe and back, and that will never be enough.
She wants more than I....more Than this world could ever give her. It's in her nature to reach for the stars and then just keep going once she gets there. She wants to be the beat that drives the music, the harmony that holds it all together. She wants to be the lyrics that tie it all together, that makes other people's hair stand on end when they hear the final composition. She wants to live in all of the beautiful places, save all of those who need saving, and write it all down, take pictures of it all and write about it so that she can share it with every human on this earth.
Desire like that eats away at you. She realizes that she is stuck in a life that has certain limits to it. No matter how hard she fights, she cannot escape the boundaries that the universe has set for her. She is like a dog stuck in a cage that is six sizes too small for her. All the time she is fighting, pushing her limits and doing whatever it takes to make the bars bend even just the slightest bit. After time, she wears down and she gets weary and this is where we end up.
She doesn't have to say it, I just know it. This is where we will always end up...until Her brain gets the best of her. One day, those chemicals and those neurons will take hold. They will finish festering under her perfectly freckled skin and she will simply explode from the horror of it all.
Until that day, this is how it is. With her on one side of the door, listening to music so loud in hopes of drowning out the thoughts that she's dying to get rid of in her head....and Me....here On the other side...hoping And praying and wishing that some day, for the love of God, that it will all just be over. I would rather love her endlessly through this battle, have it be over for her than have her experience the disappointment of life. I've loved her this hard, this long. I can't just walk away. I love her that much. Is that so foolish of me?"