You are merry, my lord.

I’m having a hard time focusing on this line because in this café where I’m writing, several groups of acting/writing groups have descended and are all talking merrily. It’s like, they’re all in rehearsal AND about to perform so they’re amped up to eleven. Actors vibrate at a fairly merry level or at least a loud level on any day – but on a day that they’re doing a first rehearsal AND a performance? That’s a group of performers turned up to eleven.

I’m starting to understand why so many theatre folk do these 24 hour play festivals – or 48 hour or whatever this is. It’s like a shot of cocaine. The high of creation coupled with the high of performance all in one go? It’s probably more like crack.
When it comes to pure adrenaline, this is the shit.

But – somehow – I’m not drawn to these sorts of events. I care too much about crafting a thing and making something with care and thought and what not. The adrenaline rush just isn’t enough for me. I understand it – if I were doing it, I’d be merry, too.

But I’d be exhausted afterwards, like I took some serious drugs. And I might have as many regrets.

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