WRITINGS ON THE WALL

My play goes on tonite. Finally. I am so tired of these endless rehearsals in which more time is wasted than energy or patience, and that is saying a lot. I am immensely tired. I find it difficult to move and get all my errands done. It is such a drag. And I have so much to do!

What a pity that life is so oddly constructed as to be almost like a landscape, obstructive, deceptive, hilly, fiat and yet ever spread out before one, never reachable and always never what you see when you look towards the horizon. Is living the horizon smooth, linear and endless yet ended and ending or is it the stones the dirt, the marsh, the dust and brambles which one walks upon to reach...what--the horizon?

It is wholly possible that one walks towards life and in doing so encounters life, that is, in the search after a horizon one discovers that it is only the road that one is really after. But isnt that in some way horrible? Why should one live in the walking? Cannot the walking be separate from the horizon? Must the two be the same or at least connected? I am afraid so. Oh god, how infinitely tedious.