Miss you

where the fuck am i?

i'm under the earth. way down under. slowly running out of oxygen... slowly fading.

one step from disappearing into thin air. disintegrating.

loosing the thread... that ... fuck. holds me together. i need stronger glue.

or probably someone whose willing to pick up the pieces and make something out of it. if there is still anything left. but how was it that i just lost, everything, or how i never even had anything. how am i supposed to know?

if i could only get back on my feet. but i'm not strong enough. i'm sick of falling and getting back up. sick of pretending i can be alone and it's ok.

sick of staring at a crowd, waiting for you to randomly be there. sick of hoping so deeply inside that what comes out is the strong, fearless me. i want to be able to just have someone to be there for me when i loose it.

i want to be able to be weak

and lonely

and breathless

cadaver.

i want to look in the mirror and feel proud.

at balance.

Perco-me a cada dia que passa

Olhando para trás enxergo tão bem o que me escapou por entre os dedos. A dor e o sofrimento traziam-me um borbulhar incessante de palavras belas, que escorriam de dentro de mim. Hoje olho-me ao espelho, e consigo atravessar-me. Como se não houvesse matéria física. O que é que me aconteceu? Parece que já não estou recheada de sentimentos e experiências. Sinto que não tenho nada para dar, que não tenho nada para oferecer. Eu não chego, não sou suficiente. Quero arrancar a minha pele transpirada e queimá-la numa fogueira sem fim que exala um odor sufocante. Tornei-me uma espectadora da minha própria vida e olho-me de fora a todos os instantes. Tenho uma vontade raivosa de fugir. Fugir de tudo o que me rodeia. Quero dar um passo em frente e desintegrar-me do meu corpo e da minha alma. Deixá-los para trás... Estou viciada em ser como sou. Sou um disco riscado que encravou e não pára de soar de forma ensurdecedora. Leva-me... por favor, leva-me. Não sei se tenho força suficiente para ser o pilar da mudança que me parece imprescindível. Mas preciso. Se não, o que será de mim? Vaguearei pela vida como uma pétala de flor que é levada pelo vento. Não posso crer. Não é possível que tenha chegado ao ponto de me ter tornado na minha pior inimiga. Não há esperança. Quero atirar-me ao poço e de lá nunca mais sair. Quero adormecer e jamais acordar. Inútil. Preciso de fechar para obras, redecorar o meu interior. Sei lá. Não aguento mais respirar este ar mastigado e de viver esta vida em segunda mão. Desde quando é que passei de protagonista a figurante na peça da minha própria vida. Serei eu quem manda? Poderei de alguma forma recuperar a minha essência esvoaçante? Dá-me alguma coisa, pelo menos. Eu sou eu. Por favor, recupera-me. Aquela ânsia de fazer Teatro que eu tinha... para onde foi? Volta. Volta, conteúdo do meu ser. Peço-te que voltes a fundir-te com as mais ínfimas moléculas do meu corpo sem vida. Acho que é isso. Cheguei a um ponto em que me envergonho de mim mesma. Tenho vergonha de quem sou e do que faço. Terei que parar de escrever para voltar a estabelecer a minha identidade. Adeus.

Sabes?

A vida surpreende-me. A todos os segundos.
Sabes quando digo: eu já me senti assim?
É mentira.
É tudo mentira.
Cada sensação é uma nova.
Cada vez que me apaixono, é diferente.
Especialmente quando é por alguém do outro lado da sala com quem nunca falei, e com quem nunca irei falar.
Sabes, essas vezes são as mais bonitas.
Por vezes as palavras poluem o silêncio. O desconhecido. O mistério.
A vida é uma montanha russa sem fim.
Daquelas com vários loopings. Sabes?
Sabes do que estou a falar?
Sabes do que estou para aqui a divagar?
Quando te olhei e desviei o olhar, sabes que a única coisa em que pensava era como gostava de sentir o teu corpo contra o meu?
Sabes?
Sabes que quando disse que não te queria ver mais, a verdade é que não pensava noutra coisa senão ter-te comigo?
Acho que a maioria das vezes que abro a boca, só sai merda. Merda. Merda. Merda.
E se eu pudesse escrever tudo o que penso? Será que ainda me conhecerias como sou?
Será que dirias que não sou a mesma no papel e na realidade?
Sabes que só tenho pensado em ti?
Sabes, gosto de ti.
Aliás, onde é que estás? Quando é que voltas?
Sabes, um dia destes podíamos ir tomar café, o que achas?
Ligo eu ou ligas tu?
Espera, acho que não tenho o teu número.
Calma, acho que ainda não te conheço.
Vou agora andar até aí, olhar-te nos olhos, sorrir sem mostrar os dentes e dizer: Olá, sou a Mafalda.
Sabes, afinal acho que não o vou fazer. Prefiro olhar-te à distância. Pode ser?
Eu fico aqui, quietinha, eu prometo que não vou incomodar.
Mas olha, quando te fores embora, dá-me um toque.
Assim posso ficar de coração partido. Assim posso apaixonar-me outra vez, all over again. Pode ser?
Sabes, gostei imenso de te conhecer.
Sabes, estou com sono.
Sabes, quero dormir.
Sabes, vou-me embora.
Sabes, boa noite.

P.S. Depois, quando tiveres um tempinho... diz-me só quem és, pode ser? Desculpa estar a incomodar.

Who cares?

I guess we all get to a point when we question ourselves. About who we are. What we want. Where we are going. I believe that we miss the point when we wonder. We waste so much time asking questions that we know, have no answers, instead of living. The past and the future don't exist, they are mere conceptions of the human mind. Future is anticipation and past is memory. Life as we know it, is the present. However, all that matters to us, is what happened or is about to happen. So, finally, I ask myself, what is the important thing about being alive? Is it the moments when we stop to think and reflect or is it when we put hands on and do the things we are always thinking about? I don't understand. I wish I did. But I don't. I imagine that this is exactly what is expected from me. I will never understand. Neither will you. Or anyone else. The problem is that we cannot stop ourselves from trying to search for this so called answer that will never come. The greatest geniuses in the world have been telling us this for thousands of years but we seem to be afraid of accepting the fact that maybe, just maybe, there is no greater truth. The truth, the absolute truth, is a myth that keeps us going on. Because, for some reason, we think that if there is nothing to look up to, there is no point. Maybe, there is no point at all. Maybe the point is to just keep going. Just hanging on. Surviving. Making decisions along the way, wrong or right, who knows. Who cares? Life is a path, a journey, it's not the arrival. Just keep going, keep on running, keep on breathing. And along the way, do the things that make you feel whole. Do the things that make you sleep at night. Be the person that arises in your mind at each second. Take a leap, take a step back, do whatever makes sense to you. In the end, who is going to judge you? Not I. Not anyone. Try to take advantage of the moments that make you, you. The rest, what is the rest? I am here, right now, writing, and at the same time there is someone, doing something across the globe. To me, that person does not exist. I exist. Is that being selfish? I am my own person. For better or for worse, I have myself to blame. I am glad for at least that. Who knows what will be of me, tomorrow, next year or in twenty years time. Who knows? I am going to be where the choices I made led me to, wherever that is. People come and go, experiences come and go, but we stay. Are we alive? Are we just living in an awkward limbo? I don't know.

But who does? Who cares?

One step further

Today is not a writing day. Today my words stayed at home. Even so, I thought it right to stop by and say, proudly, that I moved forward with you, my dear Ophelia, I am one step closer to you.
Today I go to sleep very pleased with the outcome of my day. I can feel progress and that gives me strength to move on and to never give up. I believe in myself. I really do.

I WILL do it. I WILL, I know I WILL. I believe, I truly believe.

Beginning

I guess that beginning the character work is always the hard part, but it does have to start. And in the end, I believe that the connection between actor and character is so wonderful that it makes all the hard work worth it.
I tried out various exercises, to help me get in the atmosphere of the Ophelia's situation, life, feelings, relationships, etc. I was kind of rusty, I might say. I was so difficult to try and leave myself behind and embrace another's world. Even so, towards the end of my "rehearsal" I was able to do it, to loose myself for a moment. It felt amazing.
The text, is getting more familiar. I'm starting to love the words and what they represent. I mean, let's see: how exactly is her mental and emotional state when the scene begins? She is shocked, obviously, but does she blame herself for his madness? Does she get upset because her love is going mad. Is she worried he is really mad? And why does she go to father?

OH - That's a HUGE question. Why does she insist on going to her father to talk about Hamlet? Why does she tell him everything? Why does she obbey?

- Because he is the only parental figure she can rely on
- Her brother has left, apparently Hamlet is going mad, so maybe he is the only person she can talk to
- Out of respect. At the time a lady's role was very well determined, she should obbey the male figure in her life. In this case, her father
- She's is so isolated that she has to tell someone

Who knows?

Anyway, I'll answer that later, when I have a clearer view on the matter. For now let's look at how she feels. I am really convinced that is visualizing the scene in her heard while she repeats it. Pretty sure. But even so, what is her voice like. I mean, she is shocked, so it has to be startled, but she is still a fragile, oppressed girl, so she would never speak loudly or shout. So I think that her shockedness reflects inwards, making her even more isolated.

Another good question:

Does she already hint her future madness?

Her eyes, I mean, do they foreshadow her mental fragility and her future collapse?

I'll leave on that one.

Good night Ophelia, sleep tight.

Ophelia`s depiction

Ophelia - the potential tragic heroine who just gets to be tragic. She doesn`t get to overcome the difficulties and triumph as a heroine would. Instead she can`t take and colapses. I know she`s fragile, and that she doesn`t have the ability to fight back, but who would in her position... Noone. Her father uses her at his own need and then is killed by her lover who rejects her and treats her like a whore and her brother has travelled to France. And she`s so humble, you know. She didn`t deserve it. I know she didn`t.

Diary of a new Ophelia

Who is she? Who are you? I think I knew you too well in the past to able to know you in the present. Have you changed? Is she different? I suppose she is... I want to rediscover you.

So let's start with the basics...

Ophelia, the teenager that does not have a mother, the one that is used again and again and again by her father. But she was brought up well, I mean, she is a good girl. She means no harm. Oh, and she loves him... But she can't love him fully because society is out to get her.

Who is she really? The character that Shakespeare decided to mistreat? She is the heroine, the female lover which never gets a chance to perform her role. Hamlet and the plot are too busy on their own problems to give her a shot, a shot at being a lead female role. I mean, Shakespeare just decides to isolate her, to make her so incredibly locked up, so alone. With noone to turn to. How could he do that? She just represents the person that society's eaten up, gobbled. She's taken over by them.

It's just terrifying, you know? To be in that place... that place in the dark where noone hears you scream. The world is just too occupied to take notice. And she is so scared and frightened. She fulfills her role, what she is supposed to do.

She's a mermaid. So beautiful. I think he made her so perfect so that the fall could be bigger. Oh, but she is small. And fragile. How could she not be? When life itself has took care of beating her up.

OK, so let's say this is a fresh start on you.

Act 2 Scene 1 - Description of Hamlet's madness

What should I be aware of? She has just, in that exact moment, come from seeing Hamlet appearing to be completely mad. In a good bye sort of way... He stares at her, holds her, stares some more. And all this in a appauling figure, completely unbuttoned and untied and looking like there is something way down deep which is stirring.

How could she feel about this, I mean? Besides being completely surprised, nervous, boggled, out of breath, frightened, worried. This is the man she loves, in front of her, appearing to be completely mad and acting in an extremely creepy way. She's gone mad, she'd think, what happened? My love has gone mad. Oh my god. I don't know what is going on. She is too nervous to even think straight. The words just come out of her mouth as she tries to remember what just happened. Is it me? Was it my fault? Is it because he is in love with me?

Let me try it out. Now. For the first time like this. Ohhhhh, let's goooooooo

Oh no, I can't. Not now. I'm going to learn my lines first. Then I'll try it.

That's it for the first one. Let's hope I keep finding stuff out. I don't think I'm already comfortable to talk to her directly. I need to settle more, discover how she's changed, and then I'll do.

See you tomorrow