Theatre has no memory, which makes it the most existential of the arts... I keep coming back in the hope that someone in a darkened room somewhere will show me an image that burns itself into my mind.
I cannot touch my essential self.
A room of expressionless faces staring blankly at my pain, so devoid of meaning there must be evil intent.
No one can hate me more than I hate myself.
Watching me, judging me, smelling the crippling failure oozing from my skin, my desperation clawing and all-consuming panic drenching me as I gape in horror at the world and wonder why everyone is smiling and looking at me with secret knowledge of my aching shame.
If there is a God, I’d like to look him in the face knowing I’d died as I lived. In conscious sin.
PHAEDRE: You’re in pain. I adore you.
Because love by its nature desires a future.
I feel your pain but I cannot hold your life in my hands.
Burning in a hot tunnel of dismay, my humiliation complete as I shake without reason and stumble over words and have nothing to say about my ‘illness’ which anyway amounts only to knowing that there’s no point in anything because I’m going to die.
HIPPOLYTUS: I can’t sin against a God I don’t believe in.
And I go out at six in the morning and start my search for you. If I’ve dreamt a message of a street or a pub or a station I go there. And I wait for you.
I need to become who I already am.
A horror so deep only ritual can contain it.
It’s fear that keeps me away from the train tracks.
I believe in anniversaries, that a mood can be repeated even if the event that caused it is trivial or forgotten. In this case, it’s neither.
A fourteen year old to steal my virginity on the moor and rape me till I come.
Don’t even think about it. Who would have children. You have kids, they grow up, they hate you and you die.
I lied for you and that is why I cannot love you.
She ceases to continue with the day do day farce of getting through the next few hours in an attempt to ward off the fact that she doesn’t know how to get through the next forty years.