Posted on: Thursday, April 16, 2009
Posted at: 11:08 PM
I wrote this really great play once, it was the greatest piece of art I ever came up with, full of beauty and grace, to me it was the closest thing to perfection I could ever achieve in my life so far. It was a culmination of my inspiration, emotion and joy at that time.
I can't find the original copy now.
Don't know where it went, its just gone, as if it vapourised along with my dreams of staging what I knew was going to be the greatest play I ever staged.
What is truly devastating though, is that I never bothered to make copies of it. It never occurred to me that it may just slip from my hands, into oblivion, never to return again.
Since then, I've been trying to recapture the moments of inspiration and pen them down again, but lightning doesn't strike twice on the same spot, and no matter how I try, no matter how many times I change the words, the meanings, the directions, the sequence, the everything, it just doesn't work like how it used to.
Of course, this had serious repurcussions on my rehearsals for you see, with the loss of my masterpiece, my heart and soul did not have any vessel to flow into anymore. Despite the hustle and bustle of the set, the stage was always empty to me.
After awhile, I even found having rehearsals completely pointless. Why pour so much energy into something that you know isn't something you can be truly proud of, truly happy about.
Production stopped completely, I couldn't take it anymore. Everything around, the fake trees on a set, the paint, the curtains, the music, oh the music, everything around reminded me of the missing manuscript and the grandeur it could have become.
Ever since I was deemed a liability, a moping wreck just clinging on to past dreams that will never see the light of day, I was isolated.
But I remain, searching every trunk, digging every corner, leaving no stone unturned wherever I go. It did not matter if I had never been there before, I still searched.
I worked alone though. No way I was telling anyone that my masterpiece was floating up there, up for grabs for whoever finds it first. I became paranoid, but I never gave up the search. Never planned to.
Everyday, the same routine. Wander the streets, eyes peeled looking out for any clue, any signs at all. Night fall, and I'm back in my corner in an old rustic apartment, hugging my knees, cradling my body, lulling myself saying that tomorrow'd be the day, it has to be.
Its so near I can nearly smell the coffee stains that dirtied it while I was working on it, almost hear the wind flipping through its pages again. It didn't occur to me then that it could be in my very apartment, where papers are strewn all over the place, unfiled, unbinded, just blindly thrown around as if there wasn't a need to keep the sanctuary of home a sanctuary anymore.
Of course there wasn't a need to. There wasn't a need to do anything. It would have been meaningless.
I know its somewhere out there, waiting to be found again, maybe even wanting to be reunited with its creator. Nothing is certain.
No, I stand corrected. One thing is certain. Only one thing.
I've lost the plot.
