4.2.2007: The Playwright and His Ambivalent Love for the Readers of These Plays

The stage is empty.

Because I wanna talk to you. Yeah, you. The ones reading this.

What do I do when the most important thing that happens to me on a given day is something I don’t want to write about?

Something I don’t want to give away to you.

Not that I don’t like you. I do.

I just want what’s been special about today to belong only to me.

So forgive me.

I’ll share something with you tomorrow.

But today… something nice happened today.

And I don’t think that everything should be disclosed. Revealed. Laid bare. Not that I think you’ll do damage or judge or condescend (although I always assume one will judge, that’s just my nature).

I just know that when I write something here, a piece of it disappears. Usually, I’m glad for it. Usually it’s anger, or sadness, or deep and profound reflection – and those things are better once they’ve disappeared.

But this. Today. I don’t want it to disappear. I want to hold on to it as long as I can. Without diminishment. Without analysis. Without any piece of it being taken away.

Because it was a nice thing. A thing that I’ll want to curl up next to tonight when I go to bed. Like the pillow you hold on to when there isn’t another person to hold. Like that.

It meant something to me.

So that’s all I wanted to say to you.

I’ll talk to you tomorrow.