My relationship with the arts might be a little unhealthy. When I’m creating or consuming creation, that’s when I feel alive. Not in a sappy way. Much of the rest of life floats a bit out in the distance. I told a friend once it’s like the world is wrapped in some slick plastic. I’m there. I’m part of it. But at the same time, not. Distant. Art takes off the plastic. It doesn’t matter how real or insane the art, the plastic is gone. I’m part of the world.

You might’ve guessed I’ve a thing about mortality. I have this clock on my eyelids. I can’t make out the numbers, but it’s there. Ticking. Ticking. Down and down. It fills me with anxiety. Just like art removes the plastic, it quiets down the ticking, too. I’m dying a little more quietly.

The plays I write often get tied up in my anxieties. Horror is around the edges. Something is coming. We have to move. We have to move. We have to move. I have to keep creating. Sometimes we get caught up in moving. Because if we slow down, we have to think. Have to realize that life often doesn’t make sense. The universe can be cruel. It’s terrifying. But we’ve got to try. So we move. We make meaning through trying. But in trying to make better worlds, better lives, better everything, sometimes we have to stop moving. We have to ask ourselves if we’re also trying to be kind. To be better. We have to try to let our better angels be our best. And that’s when the monsters in the dark start grabbing at our skin.

I write what scares me. Lucky for me, I’m scared of a lot of things. I think when art scares us, though, there’s some catharsis. Life gets a tiny bit easier. The scary things become a little easier to fight.