The thing about theatre people…
We let ourselves fall into these romances, these six-week love affairs with a piece of art, a cast of family members (often loved; sometimes hated; always family), a character, a song, a dance, a role.
We let these romances become our lives. They consume us. We think of them when we wake. We dream of them when we sleep. They are what we live for. But only for a moment; Never for too long.
The show closes, and the affair ends. We mourn the closing. But again, not for long.
On the horizon is another beauty, just waiting for us to fall in love and devote ourselves; To fall into another tryst with the art form with which we are so enamored. To dance again with our fickle mistress. But, only for a little while. Once again — she’s gone.
Note: I found this posted from a phone screen shot somewhere on the internet. I don’t know the source, and I took the liberty of cleaning up the grammar and usage of the original a bit. I thought it captured a sense of the love affair we theatre people experience with a role and the grief that is sometimes experienced at its passing with the final curtain.