I’m terrified. I’m terrified to speak. I’m terrified of every single one of you. Terrified that given the simple number in this space, there are so many that might already know my name. But not who I am or might have been. Because I AM the comedian that croked because he went into battle wearing chain mail made of jokes. I AM the screenwriter who passed away pitching crappy screenplay ideas about talking dogs til his last day. I AM the fisherman who might just walk off that ledge like I’m pitching a line and fishing for concrete. It’s been exactly 3373 days since I first heard a voice in my head that wasn’t mine. As if they syncronized their watches while some of you watched. And crushed my purpose like it was born of broken trust. You started it. They finished it. As real as your twisted smile. As soon as your screams sparked a future it was taken away from the inside out. It all seems backwards to me now like it did then. The innocent must have seemed guilty and the guilty have no fucking idea. As Silicon Valley winks in my direction and the pinnacle of the west coast play havoc like my crimes are worse than poorly written words. Now I wear skeletons on Halloween and pray for things you’ve never once believed was possible as I tear apart the ghost in my room when I sleep while still trying desperately to hold her hand. Such a massive orchestration flying over each of you like an invisible monalyth. I wrote this for the stage as if you sat in the front. And there’s parts of me that wonder whether the church is somewhere we should all be going on Sundays. But I cling to nothing. For there are no branches on the way down. And the future seems less satisfying then a ten year trek through the darkness. I tell myself to be direct but not bitter. Brave, but carefully so. And to write the words against my better judgement. Because I really am terrified. 

I never got the chance to face the crowd. Now I fear the crowd will never get the chance to face me.

 

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