Unveiled

In depths where earth’s rich heart lies bare and vast,

Where rivers sing to mountains, old and wise,

There blooms a love as wide, as deep, as fast,

As stars that dance in unending skies.

With words as tender as the day’s first kiss,

A voice, in whispered tones, confides,

Revealing love’s most intricate abyss,

Where every shadow, every light, resides.

 

Write no more of what could be, of shadows in the night,

But turn instead to what is real, and hold her to you, tight.

For love, when lived, in flesh and blood, surpasses every tale,

The poet’s dream, no longer sought, in her, at last, unveiled.

 

Her hair, a cascade of shadows, spun from silken night,

Frames her work, a masterpiece, in the morning's gentle light.

Drawing closer, she weaves a path, where flowers bloom and grow,

As if the earth itself responds, to the grace she does bestow.

Hazy Kaleidoscope

In a world of fractured light, I see

Colours swirling, blending truth and deceit

The lines are blurred, reality's askew

Can't make out what's real, can't find a single clue

Through kaleidoscope eyes, the images distort

Shadows dance, illusions run amok

Lost in the maze of this hazy terrain

Searching for clarity, on the verge of going insane

In this hazy kaleidoscope, I wander alone

Reality's just a shattered prism, I can't condone

Every step I take, the lines begin to blur

Lost in this chaos, my vision's all a blur (ooh-yeah)

In the echoes of silent screams, I roam  

Finding pieces of dreams, far from home  

Mirages of peace that fade away fast  

Grasping for truths, in memories of the past  

Spin the wheel of fate, where will it land?  

In the grips of confusion, where I stand  

Broken fragments underfoot, sharp and clear  

Every shard a story, every moment draws near

Shadow of Deception

I wake up in the morning, in a daze

Mind clouded, lost in a devilish haze

The lines are blurred, intentions unclear

Caught in a battlefield of love and fear

Energetic guitar riffs play in my mind

Raw vocals echo, a voice hard to find

The rock and house collide, creating a storm

A fusion of emotions, like a fire reborn

In the shadow of deception, I find no peace

Caught between the beats and the guitar's release

Lost in the chaos, the swirling of sound

Blurred intentions, lost and never found

The clash of drums, a thunderous roar,

Lyrics that bleed, emotions that soar.

In every strum, there's a story untold,

A tale of the heart, both fiery and cold.

Fever Dream

Lost in a haze, the world is a blur

Sweat on my brow and fear in my heart

Pulsating beats, electrifying surge

In this fever dream, I'm falling apart

Guitar riffs screaming, drums pounding loud

Synths intertwining, creating a storm

Visions and nightmares, they collide

In this fever dream, my soul is torn

(Oh-oh-oh) Fever dream, take me higher

(Oh-oh-oh) Lost in the rhythm, caught in the fire

(Oh-oh-oh) Gritty and raw, my emotions collide

(Oh-oh-oh) In this fever dream, I can't hide

Shadows dance in the flickering light  

Echoes whisper, voices in the night  

A crescendo rises, takes over the scene  

Caught in the clutches of this fever dream

Writing with Collaborative Iteration

In the past I have routinely embraced the archetype of the solitary writer, enveloped in the confinement of my own creative realm, choosing to withdraw from the external world to delve into the recesses of the mind, where thoughts and ideas swirl in a tempest of inspiration and despair. The tragic melodrama of it all has a certain romantic appeal to the Edgar-Allan-Poe-admiring-inclined. Writing reality, however, away from the flickering glow of candlelight that dances across the parchment, igniting with deep profundity each soul-searching word, should be one that engages with the world and other people. My experience of collaboration, particularly in a recent collaborative workshop, has helped to shape this more rounded perspective, which I believe will improve the resonance and relevance of my writing. I will draw on the work enacted in the workshop to show examples of what can be learned from valuable experiences shared with other people, and describe the context within a wider writing-for-performance landscape.

Syssoyeva and Proudfit compile various perspectives that highlight the iterative and adaptive nature of scriptwriting within a collective setting, examining the ways in which collaborative methods such as acting workshops can contribute to the development of new scripts and performances. Using my own example in this context, being in the room with actors and the director, answering questions and offering comments as a scene came to life from the page, helped me to form fresh insights on the writing, and enabled me to iterate an improved version of the script. The performance in development was of a monologue in a monologue play where the protagonist, Jane, is talking to her husband, Guy, who is in a permanent coma. The dilemma she is facing is whether she should sacrifice her life for an apparently lost cause or move on with her life despite loving him. Jane speaks a torrent of words to fill the desperation of the silence, but the most important are the last two: ‘I’m sorry’. And she leaves. She has a spectrum of contrasting thoughts in the monologue, many of which she’s not proud of. There is also a recurring theme of faith and whether anyone is listening, partly inspired by Ingmar Bergman’s ‘Silence of God’ trilogy—should she have faith that Guy is listening and lose herself in her love, or accept the reality of her life as she sees it?

The first issue I noticed in the enactment was a diminishing return of the repeated lines that Jane was using to avoid the silence. I have found repetition to have a pleasing rhythmic effect in my poetry and songs, but in the medium of dramatic theatre, meaning does not have to be vocalised. David Mamet offers a provocative take on acting and the creative process, touching upon the relationships between actors, writers, and directors. Actors experimenting with different interpretations can reveal unexpected facets of character, leading writers to refine their vision and perhaps take characters in new directions. The non-verbal cues and choices actors make in portraying their roles can highlight the importance of what is left unsaid, encouraging writers to weave more subtext into the script. It was evident from the actor’s performance of the monologue that the power of silence and its effect on Jane could be made more visceral to the audience by internalising the repeating loops of her thoughts; and that expressing her character objectives through actions and activity would give the actor greater space to find the performance and provide a much more compelling visual experience. For instance, as Jane speaks to Guy, narrating daily events and sharing her hopes and fears, she could obsessively adjust his blanket, fold sheets, fluff his pillow, or rearrange flowers on the bedside table, showing the care for his wellbeing and comfort, yet also signposting repetitive thoughts and inner turmoil. The actor’s movements and her impulse to touch Guy gave me the idea of Jane shaving her husband as he lies there. A break in the flow of text can be an opportunity for the actor and audience to experience what caring for someone is actually like. The tenderness and time she might take to shave him would convey much about the intimacy and closeness of their relationship. She could also hold her husband’s hand, brush his hair, or gently touch his face, establishing a physical connection that underscores her desperation for him to wake up and respond to her. The lack of character interaction on display made me think that Jane could start playing recordings of messages from family and friends, giving the actor something to respond to, and also revealing more of the world outside the hospital room.

Jane is trying to justify herself, and we in the audience are deciding what to think about her actions; we are invested in discovering the mix of emotions we feel about her. She is angry that he left her, that she has been abandoned to isolation, even if it wasn’t in his control. Seeing this unfold in the physical setting, and the interactions of the actor and director, made me think about the movement choices of Jane in the space and how that might be represented in the script. Clive Barker explores the use of theatre games and exercises in drama training, highlighting how these techniques can foster collaboration and creativity among actors and director, and how this, in turn, can lead to the discovery of more engaging or realistic exchanges, influencing the writer of the script to accommodate those dynamic arising interactions. The workshop itself can be viewed as a kind of interactive theatre game, with the actor dynamically responding to the director’s notes while playing with delivery and style. Experiencing the dynamic, and the actor/director experimentations with space, gave me several ideas for the movement activities of Jane that might enhance the emotional depth and narrative flow of the scene, by reflecting her internal journey, her relationship with her husband, and the gravity of the situation. For example, my post-workshop script now helps the actor make use of the whole stage—Jane can literally move away from Guy when lost in moments of anguished thought, but gravitate back to him when reminiscing about shared moments and special stories in their past. Packing up her things to go and making for the door, but changing her mind at the last moment; or stepping away from the bed to look out of a window because it’s all too much; or pacing up and down lost in thought; or standing by herself in contemplation with her back to him for a brief period, can all portray inner conflict, and are now signposted as actions within the script.

I loved the director’s suggestion in the workshop that Jane could be reading to Guy as an activity. In fact, the reading of, for example, magical realism stories could very much chime with the play’s plotline that Guy is experiencing a strange supernatural world in his coma, unbeknown to Jane, based on what she is communicating to him. The director also commented that moving the reveal of what happened to Guy to later in the monologue might add to the shape and direction of the scene, which I agreed with and implemented in my edit. Louis Catron addresses how a director’s vision can guide the scriptwriting process through collaborative workshops. The collaboration and involvement of others provides more perspectives and input into the process, for when individuals come together, pooling their unique talents and insights, the potential for innovation and excellence is magnified. For instance, without the collaboration, it would not have occurred to me to read Happy Days by Samuel Beckett for theatrical context and genre, as recommended by the director. Beckett’s play really demonstrates the power and potential of the monologue in theatre. It features predominantly one character, Winnie, buried up to her waist in the first act and up to her neck in the second, engaging in a continuous monologue that reflects on her memories, her present state, and her relationship with her mostly unseen husband, Willie. The play showcases how a single voice can convey a vast landscape of emotion and thought, making it a pivotal text for me in studying the dynamics of solo performance and the depth that monologue plays can achieve. The monologue format allows Beckett to weave complex themes into the fabric of the play, inviting the audience into Winnie’s internal world and her contemplations on life, isolation, and hope amidst despair. These themes are all echoed in my script, and Beckett’s work will serve as an influence for subsequent development of the play.

The fact that there were four actors available in the workshop made me question whether I wanted to pursue the form of the monologue play, or whether it would be more visually interesting to include character interaction. I am familiar with various monologue plays that bring to life the intimate connection between actor and audience, such as Brian Friel’s Faith Healer, Alan Bennett’s Talking Heads, The Vagina Monologues by Eve Ensler, A Night in November by Marie Jones, I Am My Own Wife by Doug Wright, Thom Pain (based on nothing) by Will Eno, Sea Wall by Simon Stephens, and so on. However, due to the very similar themes, Beckett in particular reminded me of the beauty in one actor sharing their story with the audience, especially as the subject matter is emotionally intense and personal to the character, who is gradually revealing her internal struggle with conflicted thoughts and feelings about loneliness.

Keith Johnstone’s seminal work on improvisation in theatre sheds light on the impact of spontaneous, collaborative creation among actors in the development of narratives and characters. If a writer can actually interact with and respond to characters and props, and the unique situations that arise in the moment, then this can help invoke truthful writing. It can be refined later, but an enormous creative impulse has been captured in a script that becomes, in a sense, a recording of reality—something that actually happened and was experienced (at least in the imagination of the actor). That piece of reality can then be interpreted and spun in directions by other actors in the endless ways that creativity enables. Constantin Stanislavski’s work, particularly his system of actor training, rehearsal, and performance technique, has had a profound influence on acting, and also script development. His emphasis on emotional truth, character motivation, and the ‘magic if’ provides a foundation for actors and writers to explore deeper layers of a script in a collaborative setting. Viola Spolin’s work is also a useful foundational base in the field of theatre education, particularly regarding improvisation and its role in the creative process. Her games and exercises foster spontaneity and creativity, allowing for the exploration of character relationships and scenarios that can inform script development. Commercial reality may unfortunately prevent collaboration between a writer and professional actors in most cases; however, it may be possible for a writer to apply these acting techniques and exercises to really think and feel as their character, to embody the lines and construct the writing through activity, exploring the full extent of the space or venue. The writer does not necessarily need to have the same refined skills as an actor, but they can invoke what an actor and director are searching for, to help them find their own ways into the performance. Signposts and activity, as powerful cues for dramatisation, become more apparent when the writer attempts to create the physicality from their imagination. John Stylan observes that Shakespeare’s experiences as an actor shaped his dramatic works, including character development, stage directions, and the structure of his plays. Shakespeare, as the actor he was, may have actively written at the theatre and adapted and iterated for how the actors engaged with his words. On my part, I do read my scripts out loud to myself, but from now on I will also physicalise the words as an actor approaching the intentionality of lines. This practice will ensure I have properly engaged with the character’s motivations in the moment and the impulses they are likely to be actioning for their wants and needs within the scene.

I have focussed, in the past, on an internal collaboration with influences in literature: the psychological depth of Chekhov’s characters, the sharp social commentary of Brecht’s epic theatre, or the innovative narrative structures found in the works of Caryl Churchill. However, moving beyond my thoughts and engaging closely with actors and a director, I have come to believe that a script does not have to be a static monument but can evolve with performance. An acting collaborative workshop can serve as a living laboratory for script development, bridging the gap between the writer’s words and its eventual realised life, ensuring that the script iterates to not only a compelling narrative but also a practical, performative blueprint ready for production. There is still a part of me that feels the pull of the candlelight, beckoning me back further into my solitary writing cave, although now I have discovered the appeal of sunlight outside.

Ode to a Headache

O Headache, thou art a silent warrior, with a crown of thorny rose,

That tightens with an iron grip, from my temples to my nose.

Thy subjects, we, in futile fight, do seek to ease our plight,

With potions, pills, and whispered spells, in the dimming of the light.

“Ode to a Headache," I do declare, with a wry and weary smile,

For this royal pain within my head has lingered quite a while.

It taps upon my temples, a relentless, throbbing beat,

A reminder of the night before, and all that I did eat.

The chocolate was a villain, red wine played its part,

Each a merry prankster in the throbbing of my heart.

But fear not, for this tale does hold a twist or two,

For I've found a secret weapon, a potion tried and true.

With water as my ally, and rest to lead the charge,

I'll banish this foul jester, and set my brain at large.

Silken Night

Her hair, a cascade of shadows, spun from silken night,

Frames her work, a masterpiece, in the morning's gentle light. Drawing closer, she weaves a path, where flowers bloom and grow,

As if the earth itself responds, to the grace she does bestow.

Scientia

We probe the boundless cosmic night,

And in the atom's heart, we seek the light.

We claim the mysteries that nature hides,

But chase reflections of our minds.

Easter

The earth, once clad in winter's shroud, now wears the Easter cloak of spring's rebirth. From the darkness light reclaims its throne, and the rivers run with wine.

Scratch pad: poems

Upon the stage of fate, in Deptford’s gloom,

Where cobblestones echoed with whispered dread,

Marlowe, with gasping breath, met his doom,

"Neptune’s ocean clears not this blood," he said.

In that dimly lit, foreboding room,

The world had lost a voice, too early, too soon.

..…

It begins with a murmur, a sigh in the trees,

Then, droplets commence, carried soft on the breeze,

Tapping on windows, like spirits that prance;

The earth, parched and longing, lifts its face to the dance,

Embracing each drop, with a grateful sigh,

A perfume of rain descends from the sky.

The rivers and streams, once silent and slow,

Now babble and chatter, as they swell and flow.

…..

Write no more of what could be, of shadows in the night,

But turn instead to what is real, and hold her to you, tight.

For love, when lived, in flesh and blood, surpasses every tale,

The poet’s dream, no longer sought, in her, at last, unveiled.

Scratch pad: Limerick

A baron from old Aberdeen,

Declared, "Our weather’s so verily mean!"

One minute it’s sunny,

The next, it's all runny,

It’s like nature’s own washing machine!

Random Thoughts

I’m sitting on a bench in a church graveyard (as you do) enjoying the smells of spring and the songs of little birds.

I grew up before the internet and mobile phones. When I was kid I used to have to spend ages pressing tape into cassette heads to make sure the computer program didn't crash while loading into memory. When I was very young we didn't even have a video player for our one small TV in the living room. The technological revolution I have witnessed in my life so far has been unprecedented, and it is about to accelerate if the angry little medieval minds fumbling with the power in stars don't destroy everything.

The thought memes copied and propagated in society are crazed and inaccurate, generally. What’s the answer then to help people see more clearly? It’s connected to human fulfilment because unhappy, fearful minds create similar environments. If there is an abundance of opportunity and an economic de-stressing of people’s lives; if there is a lack of propaganda and indoctrination—then that would be a good start.

A lot makes sense when you realise that most important decisions are made by stressed, inexperienced people who don’t really know what they’re doing, but who justify themselves by repeating approved political or corporate phrases.

AI can more easily replace the talk done in boardrooms than the creative solutions of skilled people.

(Only joking. Well, sort of): Personally, I can’t wait to have my own AI robot. I’ll finally have a friend. My AI agents can be my extended network. Who needs squishy humans anyway? Imagine a future with no need for messy human-to-human sex. Robots can fulfil your every need and look exactly like what you are attracted to. An AI partner can be your perfect partner because they will really understand you. Babies (if necessary) can be grown in artificial wombs.

How long before the first blue chip company with zero employees?

I favour one-to-one contact over group interaction.

The hands that held me in the dark gripped too tightly then slipped away entirely.

The Humber is the southern border of the United Counties of Yorkshire. We soft southerners live in the non-Yorkshire wastes from the Wash to the Severn? I must remember to bring my passport.

Depths

In depths where earth’s rich heart lies bare and vast,

Where rivers sing to mountains, old and wise,

There blooms a love as wide, as deep, as fast,

As stars that dance in unending skies.

With words as tender as the day’s first kiss,

A voice, in whispered tones, confides,

Revealing love’s most intricate abyss,

Where every shadow, every light, resides.

Random Thoughts

Once upon a time, I saw a thespian’s version of Iago and thought I could do it better than that. I then saw his Hamlet and thought I could do it much better than that. I was extremely arrogant and delusional in my thinking at the time, but I think it was the lack of raw passion rather than any lack of characterisation that made those sorts of exquisitely skilled performances slightly frustrating to me. And so, with the benefit of hindsight, as the sun sets on the day, the more mature, bemused version of me looks back and chuckles at his younger self and realises, I haven’t actually changed my mind at all.

Choosing someone to love is also choosing the one who will make you suffer, so make sure the love is big enough to be worth the price.

One of the silliest widespread human behaviours is dismissing a person into a category based on surface appearances, pre-fixed labels, and personal or ideological prejudices.

I don’t believe that a person’s conscious awareness is the pre-determined result of the biological and societal algorithms applied to them.

We are about to enter a very strange world… changing voices is just for fun now and will improve to be entirely realistic, next up is video content, then integration into daily experience via AR/VR!?

Journal 2024-03-16

I’m currently living on the corners of a triangle between Colchester, Cambridge, and London.

Being asked to write a poem in the afternoon and perform it in the evening was challenging. I spent 30 minutes writing rubbish that was thrown away, then 30 minutes wandering about mumbling; then sat in a quiet corner of the bar and wrote it in 20 minutes. Had dinner and the poem went down great, with a very generous response.

Another highlight was having professional actors pick out lines from my script and be generous with their comments. Different people in different contexts mentioned the word “beautiful”.

My weakness and my strength is that I do not defer to anyone like I am expected to. The great geniuses of the past I admire, but nobody living today receives that gushing appreciation from me. One celebrated person thought I had gone over to talk to her, although really I was passing by to visit the toilet and she had stopped me. She was very friendly and was enjoying the role of benign mentor figure. I appreciate her more not because of her acclaim others were fawning over but because she was nice to me. I later made a fool of myself by knocking over the Meeting Owl.

I love this time of year when everything is returning to life.

Lots of spam from my website so I removed the contact form. Bots just don’t seem to realise that telling me about once-in-a-lifetime deals on SEO opportunities for the 1,000th time isn’t really my thing.

I now have one less tooth.

I See

I was the song in a heart’s quiet plea,  

A melody of what was meant to be.

I was, and yet, I am still here,  

In every laugh, in every tear.  

I was the whisper before the dawn,  

The first hint of light on a day reborn.  

 

I am the murmur in the morning breeze,  

The quiet hum that dances through the trees.  

I am the shadow stretching at the dawn,  

The fleeting moment before the night is gone.

I am the silence in a crowded room,  

The lingering scent of a hidden bloom.

I am the warmth of a heartfelt embrace,  

The clear calm in our sacred space.

I am the courage in the face of fear,  

The steadfast hope that draws you near.

 

I will be the warmth in the winter's cold,  

A comforting embrace retold.

I will be the laughter in the rain,  

Turning each sorrow into our refrain.  

I will be the relief in the storm's rage,  

A steady presence, an unwavering face.

I will be the peace in the tumultuous sea,  

A beacon of hope for you and for me.

I will be the dream that never fades,  

A myriad of colours in endless shades.  

I will be the courage in your heart,  

A promise that we shall never part.

I will be all that I can be, 

For in my eyes, it's you I see.

Random Thoughts

It helps a writer to have some aptitude and experience in acting, although appreciation of the art can be enough.

Good actors are natural writers because they use their imagination to explore the world they are helping to create.

I remember once, a while back, someone said, “hey Rob, you’re doing your Blue Steel again.” It was funny because it was true.

A genuine apology would contain: I’m sorry I was a twat; I feel terrible because of what my bad behaviour caused. I promise I’ll not repeat that behaviour by taking steps to not being so much of a twat.

Don’t underestimate the impact of toothache on human history. Chronic pain is an accelerator of untypical behaviour, potentially bad or transformatively good.

It’s a problem if you think it’s a problem.

A helpful question: What will I create today?

Random Thoughts

I would go as far as to say that most of what people believe to be true are delusions; and that people who think themselves to be intelligent are particularly prone to smugness and moral certainty with their delusions. I wouldn’t say that a person with an IQ of 150 is intelligent if they think stupidly, no matter how camouflaged those thoughts are in complex paradigms and skilled words. This is why humility is so important. But more importantly: kindness.

It seems strange to me that people are educated without some training in the nature of thought, helpful methodologies for constructive thinking, or best practice for critical thinking, with an awareness of the common logical fallacies in thinking using real-life case studies. If I were being sceptical I would say the absence of this knowledge makes it easier to control what people think.

Critical thinking isn’t necessarily contrarianism but it should make you wince if you are blindly appealing to authority and what other people happen to think at the time without at least making an attempt to objectively question the evidence.

Social finesse is not the same as decency. Bad motivations are usually hidden behind adept social skills. The very worst people can empathise very well and know how to manipulate this for personal gain.

Pundits often tell stories from a certain perspective. Statement after statement where it is required to accept the reality of illusion.

Just as a comedian will say anything to be funny, a pundit may say anything to court an audience.

I hope that future humans look back and are bemused by how stupid we all were.

Guy's Hospital (Excerpt)

HOSPITAL WARD.

GUY LIES IN A COMA. ANOTHER BED IS OCCUPIED BY GUNTER, WHO APPEARS TO BE IN A SIMILAR UNCONSCIOUS STATE.

THE ROOM IS QUIET, SAVE FOR THE SOFT BEEPING OF GUY’S VITAL SIGNS MONITOR.

JANE ENTERS.

JANE:

Guy, my darling Guy.

SHE KISSES HIM.

It’s me… Jane.

I’m here, just like I promised I’d be, every day, until you wake up.

SILENCE.

How are you today?

SILENCE.

SHE SITS ON A CHAIR BY THE BED AND WITHDRAWS A BOOK FROM HER BAG.

So, where did we leave off?

Ah yes, here we are…

(READING)

The trees, tall and wise, stretched their gnarled branches towards the sky, echoing secrets of the ages in a symphony only Lysander could comprehend. As he ventured deeper into the heart of the forest, Lysander stumbled upon a clearing bathed in the ethereal glow of moonlight. In the centre of the clearing stood a majestic oak, its bark etched with runes glowing softly in the silver light. He reached out and touched the ancient bark. In that moment, a rush of wind swept through the clearing, carrying with it a voice, ancient and…

(SHE SUDDENLY CLOSES THE BOOK)

I won’t pretend it’s been easy, Guy.

Each morning, I rise. Because I have to, because I choose to, because I believe – hope – that one day, you’ll come back to me. Yet I can’t help but feel that with each passing day, a part of me is withering away, rotting in this chair.

TO THE FOURTH WALL:

I sit with him, you know, every day. I read to him, talk to him about everything and nothing. Shave him. Shave him? Yes.

JANE TAKES THE TOOLS OUT OF HER BAG AND STARTS TO SHAVE GUY’S FACE.

I find comfort in talking to Guy about the mundane; did he know the Hendersons’ cat finally got stuck in their own tree? Irony, Guy loves irony.

I tell him about the Jammie Dodger shortage at the supermarket as if it’s headline news. And sometimes, I swear, I see a flicker, a sign he’s there, trapped in his own head, screaming about the absurdity of Jammie Dodger shortages in supermarkets.

I’ve found myself bargaining with every deity I can think of, promising a lifetime of good deeds for a single moment of clarity from him.

SHE WITHDRAWS A PACKET OF JAMMIE DODGERS FROM HER BAG AND EATS ONE.

I’d even tell him the truth about the Christmas vase from Aunt Muriel he thought was lost.

(A BROKEN VASE SITS ON THE SIDE TABLE)

I’ve become quite the conversationalist, speaking into the void, filling the silence with words.

Because that’s what you do, isn’t it? You talk, even if it’s just to the walls, because the alternative is silence, and the silence is unbearable.

SILENCE.

And maybe, just maybe, my words will be the lifeline that guides him back.

Until then, I’ll be here, talking even when I’m not sure if anyone is listening.

TO GUY:

Remember the time you surprised me with that picnic in the living room because the park was closed?

SHE STARTS TO REARRANGE HIS BLANKET.

You had it all laid out, the blanket, the basket, even those little candles you were so proud of finding. We made a toast to indoor adventures and drank until we could barely move.

SILENCE.

I was rummaging through the attic last Tuesday. You remember, our shared vault of “we’ll sort it later” treasures and I found an old picture of us in Brighton.

SHE SHOWS HIM THE PICTURE.

I remember we were seeking out the best fish and chips. We found it, though, didn’t we? Tucked away in that little alley, the one that smelled of salt and vinegar. You said it was the best you’d ever had. I agreed, but between you and me, it was being with you that made them taste so good.

SILENCE.

We spent that night walking along the beach, sharing our dreams under the stars.

There we were, utterly lost but utterly content, discovering hidden corners of the place and each other. Every word came straight from your heart promising a lifetime of adventures together. And then there was the rain. We danced in it. You spun me round and round until we collapsed, laughing, into that massive puddle on the promenade.

We were drenched, utterly soaked, and happy. But here’s the secret I’ve never shared: as we walked back along the beach, hand in hand, I found a small, smooth stone. It was nothing special, just a piece of quartz, but it sparkled in the night. I slipped it into my pocket, a solid piece of that perfect, fleeting moment. I’ve kept that stone with me every day since. It’s here with me now.

SHE REVEALS IT FROM UNDER HER TOP,

HANGING ON A CHAIN. SHE REMOVES THE CHAIN WITH THE QUARTZ STONE AND PUTS IT IN HIS HAND.

These shared moments remind me of us, of who we are beyond this…

SILENCE.

So, I’ll keep sharing these memories with you, my love.

Even if you can’t respond, I know you’re listening. These stories, our stories, they’re the crumbs leading you back home to me.

JANE FINISHES SHAVING GUY.

SHE NOTICES JAMMIE DODGER CRUMBS AND REMOVES THEM FROM HIS BLANKET.

And I’ll be here, waiting, reminiscing, until we can create new memories together again.

TO THE FOURTH WALL:

I can’t do this.

SHE STARTS TO PICK UP HER THINGS TO GO.

I thought I could, but every day feels like I’m sinking further and there’s no one to pull me out. I tell myself, “just get through today,” but the days stretch on, endless, each one a mirror of the last.

SHE HEADS FOR THE DOOR BUT PAUSES THERE.

And Guy. Guy is trapped in his silent world, unreachable, leaving me to navigate this darkness alone.

SHE WALKS BACK TO HIM.

Everyone says, “you’re so strong,” “you’re doing so well.” But they don’t see this, do they? The nights spent in tears, the days filled with a hollow emptiness that consumes everything.

SHE REPEATEDLY ADJUSTS HIS BLANKET AGAIN.

Strength? It’s a façade I hide behind because the truth is too much to bear. I miss him. Not just the man he was before the accident, but the life we shared, the future we dreamed of.

And the silence? It’s suffocating.

SHE WALKS OVER TO A WINDOW AND LOOKS OUT.

The loneliness, Guy, it’s indescribable. The silence echoes in the emptiness of our home, in our bed, where I lie awake, yearning for your warmth. I’m trying to be strong… but some days, I’m just pretending, hoping somehow to make it through to the next morning.

SILENCE.

I’ve struggled with fear, with separation, with the daunting reality of facing life without you. There were days I felt so lost that I couldn’t see a way out.

SILENCE.

So here, in this quiet, I speak my apologies into the space between us, hoping somehow, they reach you. I have to believe that somewhere, beneath the stillness, you can feel me, hear me; that you remember the moments we shared together.

TO THE FOURTH WALL:

I used to relish moments of quiet, but now it’s a constant reminder of his absence. I talk to him, to the empty space on the sofa he once filled, but my own voice is a reminder of how alone I am. They say grief is the price we pay for love, but no one warns you about the weight of it, how it can crush you, leave you gasping for air in the middle of the night.

TO GUY:

Dinner for one, a solo walk, and lying next to an empty half of the bed are normal for me now. Although hope and despair have become my new housemates.

(PLAYING WITH HIM)

Hope wanders about with a suitcase full of “what ifs” and “soon maybes,” while despair tends to slouch in the corner, mumbling “what’s the point?” into his tea. They don’t get on, you see. I’m caught in the middle. Oh yes, and guilt.

LAUGHING INTO A HAND MIRROR FROM HER BAG.

Every time I laugh or enjoy a moment of sunshine, guilt is there, reminding me, “Should you be feeling this when Guy is lying there?”

But in the midst of this crowd, there’s love. It’s what turns my feet towards the hospital each day, even when hope and despair are having one of their squabbles. And when you wake, we’ll laugh about this, won’t we?

SHE SHOWS HIM THE MIRROR TO HIS FACE FOR A MOMENT BEFORE PLACING IT BACK IN HER BAG.

About how I became such good friends with loneliness, hope, despair, and guilt.

But mostly, how love never once left the room.

SHE REARRANGES THE FLOWERS ON THE BEDSIDE TABLE.

As for me, apparently I’m glue that holds things together. Or so I’ve been told. Glue that feels decidedly less adhesive these days. All the while, cooking meals that go uneaten and maintaining routines that feel increasingly hollow.

SILENCE.

But that’s okay, because this is all an opportunity for “personal growth”, or so says my cognitive therapist. Personal growth, now there’s a term that always seemed a bit lofty to me, something for selfhelp books…

Yet, here I am, a walking case study. It’s funny, isn’t it? Not “ha-ha” funny, more like “Alanis Morissette ironic” funny, how personal growth’s most profound lessons are often those we’d never choose.

(PACING UP AND DOWN)

I’ve become somewhat of a philosopher, you see. Not by choice, but by circumstance. Contemplating the nature of existence between hospital visits and microwave meals.

I’ve wrestled with questions I never thought to ask, faced fears I didn’t know I had. And in the midst of it all, I’ve discovered strengths – like being able to cry on a crowded bus without garnering too much attention.

I’ve also mastered the art of solitude. Except, of course, being near the ticking of that very annoying cuckoo clock you brought back from Geneva.

SHE INSPECTS THE VITAL SIGNS MONITOR.

I’m convinced it speeds up just to taunt me. But it’s not all existential dread and ticking clocks. No, this journey’s had its share of revelations. Like learning that love isn’t just a feeling; it’s an action, a choice made in the quiet moments, in the steadfast refusal to give up hope.

SHE SITS DOWN.

So here I stand, or rather sit, a somewhat unwilling pilgrim on the path to self-discovery. I’ve learned to navigate the world on my own, to find joy in the small victories, and to keep talking, even when it feels like I’m only speaking to the walls.

Because one day, I hope, you’ll talk back. And I’ll keep dreaming, for both of us, until you’re here to dream with me once more.

TO THE FOURTH WALL:

A driver collided with our world. Guy, my husband, managed the extraordinary feat of stepping off the pavement at just the wrong moment. A car, too fast, too distracted, turned our life into this drama. Only, in our version, the hero doesn’t wake up with a start. No, my Guy is more the silent type these days. The doctors use terms like “traumatic brain injury” as if I might find comfort in the certainty of a label. I don’t.

TO GUY:

Our future, now I see, is not a place or an event.

It’s us, simply being, together.

(HOLDING HIS HAND)

A future where every day is an adventure because it’s shared with you.

Perhaps our grandest adventure lies not in the peaks we conquer but in the valleys we navigate together, in the everydayness of our shared life.

So, I will dream a different dream for us. One where our future is not measured by the stamps in our passports but by the mornings we wake up next to each other, by the nights we fall asleep mid-conversation.

Though lately, it’s been more of a monologue than a dialogue.

SILENCE.

Guy, bless you, you haven’t been much for conversation since the accident. But does that stop me? Of course not. I’ve become quite adept at talking to myself. With you listening, of course, my darling.

TO THE FOURTH WALL:

I tell him everything and anything. How the azaleas he planted are blooming, or how Mrs. Jenkins next door has taken to singing opera in the early hours.

(MORE)

It’s our little soap opera, broadcast directly to his bedside.

I’d like to think he’s entertained, that somewhere in the silence, he’s laughing with me. But it’s not just the trivialities of our days I share with him. It’s the “I love yous”, the “we miss yous”, the “please come backs”.

JANE PLAYS A RECORDING OF A MESSAGE FROM HER PHONE:

“HEY GUY, REMEMBER ME? IT’S YOUR SISTER, LEXI. SORRY I CAN’T BE THERE IN PERSON, BUT YOU’RE NOT VERY INTERESTING THESE DAYS… YOU KNOW I’M JOKING… I MISS YOU, YOU KNOW, GUY…”

JANE (CONT’D):

It’s the reassurance that no matter how long this nightmare lasts, I’ll be here, making sure the love finds its way to him.

And it’s not a solitary endeavour, oh no. The outpouring of love and support has been overwhelming. Cards, calls, visits, each a lifeline, a chorus of voices joining mine in this one-way conversation.

It’s heartening, really, how it can take tragedy to draw out such warmth. They say people live on in our memories, and I find that to be painfully, beautifully true. Guy’s here with me, not just in this room, surrounded by machines and the antiseptic smell of hospitals, but in who I am.

Our stories, our memories, they’re what bind us, weaving the fabric of our life together. And so I talk to him, recounting our shared past, our dreams, our arguments over trivialities, as if by sheer longing, I can bridge the gap between us.

TO GUY:

Here in this silence, I’m confronted by words unsaid, of arguments paused mid-breath. Our last argument, the one before… this, it lingers.

TO THE FOURTH WALL:

I argue with shadows, defend myself to the echoes.

It’s a peculiar form of madness, isn’t it?

Quarrelling with a memory. How do I argue with a man who can no longer answer back? How do I resolve conflicts that have become monologues?

TO GUY:

I believe in us, in the “us” that survives beyond the harsh words and cold silences.

SILENCE.

I don’t know how to do this without you, Guy. They say time heals, but it feels more like I’ve become used to the pain. You know, I keep asking myself, would I be here, if things had ended differently between us? If we had let go when every argument felt like the last straw, if we had agreed that maybe love wasn’t enough to fix what was broken?

And now, here I am, clinging to your hand, praying for a miracle that feels like it might be too late to even want. The guilt… it’s crushing me. Because part of me wonders if I’m here just trying to make up for all the ways I failed you. I’m tired, Guy. Tired of carrying this guilt. How I stormed out, leaving so many angry words hanging in the air between us. If I had known it would be the last time, would I have stayed? Or tried harder to understand, to forgive?

SHE TAKES A BRUSH OUT OF HER BAG AND STARTS TO BRUSH HIS HAIR.

But here I am, every day and night, talking to you, hoping you can hear me, hoping you can forgive me for the days I thought leaving was the easier choice. I wish it hadn’t taken this to make me realise so clearly, I love you. But what if it’s too late? What if all these nights, all these whispered apologies and confessions of love, are just echoes in an empty room? What if you can’t hear me, can’t forgive me? It’s my biggest fear; that I’ve lost you, not just to this coma, but to the mistakes and misunderstandings that we let come between us.

TO THE FOURTH WALL:

They tell me you’re gone, that even if you wake, the man I loved won’t be coming back. So, I smile, I nod, I go through the motions of living. But inside, I’m numb. I go to work, I meet friends, I smile at them, and all the while, I feel nothing. They say I must move on, that life has to go on. So, I’ve tried, Guy. I’ve tried to step forward, one foot in front of the other, but with each step, I’m like a ghost wandering in the shadows of other people’s lives.

TO GUY:

Love is the determination to hold on to each other when everything else is trying to pull you apart. I thought we had that kind of love, Guy. I still want to believe we do.

But I need a sign, something to show me that you’re still in this with me. Please, Guy, fight. Fight to come back to me. Don’t make me beg.

I know I should be strong for us. And I am, Guy, I am. But I need you to fight too. Fight to wake up, to come back to me, to us. I can’t imagine a life without you in it.

SILENCE.

I’ll be back tomorrow, darling. And every day after that. You’re not alone, Guy. You’ll never be. I’ll be right here, waiting for you… always. I love you.

TO THE FOURTH WALL:

In the midst of all this, the silence, the waiting, the not knowing… I found myself seeking… no, craving some semblance of life.

SHE STANDS BY HERSELF WITH HER BACK TO GUY.

A connection, a spark, something to remind me that I’m still alive, that there’s still a world outside these hospital walls.

I want to have children and the cuckoo clock keeps ticking faster. And so, I made a decision, one evening, to not be alone. To be with someone who isn’t you. It wasn’t about love, or even desire, not really. It was about feeling something, anything, other than this crushing emptiness. I told myself it was a moment of weakness, too many proseccos, a fleeting lapse in judgement, but…

TO GUY:

I tried, you know. After the accident, after the silence and the waiting became too much, I tried to move on. To forget about you, about us. I thought…

I thought it was the right thing to do, to live again, to be part of the world that kept spinning without you.

SILENCE.

I’m sorry…

JANE LEAVES. GUNTER, WHO HAD BEEN MOTIONLESS IN THE BED NEXT TO GUY, STIRS, AND THEN, WITH A SURPRISING BURST OF ENERGY, GETS OUT OF BED.