There�s always a specific cast in my mind. The same characters come up over and over again as if Sartre, the great existentialist playwright penned the script of my conscience.
Some are mimes�silent. Brushing up against my body in phantom sensations. These are the ones that make my stomach draw into itself and my breath catch. These are the ones who make me regret.
Others come to the center of the stage and deliver a dialogue in crass screams and remonstrating actions. They threaten me. They make me feel like a small child, an incompetent wretch of a woman. A failure.
The worse, though, are the members of the cast who don�t come into the spotlight at all. Instead, they stand just to the right or left of it in shadows and whisper. if only, if only, if only, if� And these are the ones who make me weep.