Line, please.

This feels foreign and uneasy. I've missed the success and escape, but stage fright can be crippling. These bucket loads of dry sand I've been trying to hold between two bare hands are beating me. Emotions, thoughts, memories and words run through me as long ribbons of blurred grains - smooth like silk, warm like the sun - leaving me hollow and limp.

I turn to my bed. The book on my nightstand, once filled with passion, adventure, images and culture, now lies silently beside my clock, resting beneath my mobile wake-up call, counting down boldly to 4 A.M. Reluctantly, 5. Regrettably, 6.

Each night, I turn off the day and blanket my soul with the safety of an old quilt, cushioning my nighttime thoughts with a pillow, sweet with the scent of home. This is my retreat.

I read my friends' lines and directions through the filter of distance - miles and years. I can hear through these flimsy walls the soundtracks of their own dramas, romantic comedies, documentaries, and musicals as their stories carry on. My own movie is paused like an old VHS. Someone needs to fix the tracking. It's shaky and wiggly.

I'm waiting for direction, the next pages of my screen play.

Improvisation is harder than it looks.

The show must go on. Put on a happy face.

How the hell did I get here?

Whose line is it anyway?