I miss acting as I used to know it. Immersing myself into being somebody else, no matter for how short a period, was a form of release from the life I lead. The kind of acting that Call Cutta calls for is more dangerous, because it blurs the lines between who you are and who you are supposed to be. When you chat with a sympathetic, disembodied voice, sometimes there’s the urge to confide more than I ought. I suppose I need someone to confide in, not just to unburden but maybe also to let them help me. I was a fool to think I could get by with Vicky; he’s too close to the source of hurt.
Was I always this quiet? At twenty-two I feel as though I’ve come a full circle: from the quiet and sulky kid I used to be I’ve become a quiet and lonely adult. I used to sulk because I felt nobody understood me. Now I’m lonely because I know nobody will, because nobody has the time. Somewhere in between I remember I used to be this exuberant brat, singing and laughing and talking at the top of her voice so that people would wince just to see me coming. But talking is a futile gesture anyway, what would I say with nobody to say it to?
Having been a secret optimist all my life, it’s rather shattering to find myself questioning the very hopefulness that has kept me going so far. Nothing feels like it has been worth the trouble. Particularly this morning, I realized how accustomed I’ve become to giving in. The last one year has not been good for my get-up-and-go! It’s time to pare my life back to essentials, to living out of the one big bag, to keep only what I need and not what I think I want. That has always helped. I just need to do it again.