Well it is back to reality again. Cold wet days and winter blues settling back into place. I have just about finished the writing course and now really need to find another outlet. It is so easy to do very little and I find that the less i do, the less I feel like doing and so it goes on. I know that I should write but even that seems to be hard at the moment. I find motivation very elusive.
The next thing to look forward to is a performance of Waiting for Godot in Brighton, with patrick Stewart and Sir ian McKellan. It isn't the most cheery of plays, even though there are moments of mirth. It is a play about helplessness in which two old tramps meet in the same place each day to wait for Godot, who never comes and even though we know that he never will, and so do they, they still meet each day in the vain hope that today will be different. They aimlessly wander between optimism and pessimism, finding ways to pass the time - "it would have passed anyway." They try to hang themselves from a tree. The rope is weak and snaps, a bittersweet moment as the rope had been used to keep up Estragon's trousers. Their lives are brightened when they meet one who has been enslaved by a tyrannical master. rarely do they find anyone worse off than themselves.
It is a black comedy from the pen of Samuel Beckett, encapsulated in the only line that I can remember right now. "They give birth astride of a grave. The light gleams an instant, and then it is night once more." Right now, the light is gleaming, but there are daily reminders that night is not far away.
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