Tonight I sallied forth with Matt to see the last night of a play my roommate was performing in, An Inspector Calls-- he was the Inspector, actually, and did a great job. We arrived late and were on the waiting list for tickets, but a couple who had reserved tickets didn't show. The seats were on the ground level of the theatre and in the exact center. And when I say ground level, I mean it-- when the actors stepped forward to do their monologues, I was sitting and staring up at them from about three feet away. The play itself (aside from some plot maneuvres I don't really agree with) was also pretty interesting and had a good message. I daresay we rather enjoyed ourselves.

Recently I've been spending a lot of time working on two of my stories-- both planning and actual writing, finally-- and as always when I stoke one of my true passions into a flame, it flips that little switch deep inside me that makes me come out of my sleep and open my eyes. It's only in times like these that I really notice and ponder how, in our society, we cultivate the lives we can slip into with the most ease and then, cruising along on auto-pilot, hide in those until we die. Every day we put so much focus on routines, time-tables, conveniences and responcibilities that we come to think that that's all there is to life, and that if we handle those things adequately then we must be adequately living our lives. That's silly, of course. But it's sneaky how we fall into that trap without even seeing it coming-- at least, I know that happens to me, every time I think I've climbed out once and for all. Up to now I've still failed to escape it, and I've been trying for a while. I'm beginning to wonder if it's not possible to climb out intact, and if instead I'm going to have to sever a few trapped limbs (habits? values? ideas? needs?) to really get free.