It’s getting harder and harder to connect to the old world that was my world. The Internet here in our house in Bacolod is just not up to scratch with what I’m used to and that makes blogging, WhatsApp, and the other means with which I keep in touch slip from my grasp.
Without the constant juggling of work and my social life (which always seemed to go hand-in-hand) I find myself sinking deeper into this state of isolation. The introverted side of me is taking over. I don’t strike many people as any way introverted but I do have tendencies. I actually don’t mind being alone. And with my only task at hand is to get stronger and better and my parents taking care of all my needs, there’s nothing else to do, really. I can sink into oblivion and be totally okay with it and I don’t know how I feel about that.
I’m getting very comfortable with all of this.
I am writing a lot of poetry, though, and not always straight into my Twitter or Instagram or here on my blog. I write some of them in a file first or even by hand and I just leave it there. I will let it rest and breathe unseen unlike my other poems that have been born straight into social media before I refine them and fix them. Now, I’m taking my time with their big reveal to the world.
I am reminded, all of a sudden, of No Filter, the first run where we had this segment at the finale (which we took out for the second run because, well, it was no longer needed in the second run; no matter how much I loved that original finale). The segment was called So, I’m a Millennial and it was a way for us to somehow wrap up the show, bringing it full circle from the opening segment where the five millennials began talking about, well, millennials.
The play was such a new thing that we needed the original opening and the ending, respectively called Do You Know What They Say About Us? and So I’m a Millennial to help ease the audience into the kind of play we were going to do. A monologue series is unusual to a young theater audience. We needed both parts to somehow give it a frame for the audience to understand what we were doing.
By the time the second run came, we seemed to have broken borders that we could remove them and we found other ways, in the forms of the monologues, that would begin and end the show without the need for a structural frame. By then, the audience were prepared and knew what to do.
Ah! The magic of the theatre. So malleable and dynamic. It actually grows and evolves with the audience over time.
The reason I had to explain all of this was because my current situation reminded me of an important line from So, I’m a Millennial. It was a really powerful line, especially when taken into context with the whole play and the dialogue from within just that segment that led up to it.
In the first run, Jasmine Curtis-Smith had no alternates, so she was able to say it in every show of the first run and, without the context of the play, I will quote her with that now, more present line:
Don’t sink. Don’t sink.
I am sinking. I feel it. Into the comfortable bosom of the depths. I’m with family. I’m in a place that makes no demands out of me. At first I was flailing. Scared and frightened because I’ve always defined myself through my work and now, all of a sudden, I don’t have to work. I can just get stronger.
Don’t sink, the words from the play resonates somewhere in the air and I can hear it calling out to me and I wonder if this is the right thing to do. Do I sink? Do I allow myself to sink? Even when I get stronger after God knows how much time, will I have strength enough to swim back to the surface and start again?
I don’t know.
It’s the magic of theatre, really, the lessons learned are imprinted in your skin and not so easily forgotten. Like a tether keeping me from going too far down into the depths of where I go to rest.
If I’m not strong enough to swim back up when I’m ready to re-sruface, I’ll tug on this cord and I know someone on the other end will help pull me back up again.
Don’t sink. Don’t sink.
Okay. I won’t.