My love for my husband and his work

This is not truly a narrative. It's merely a description of how deeply I love my husband and the career field we both desire to work in.

I love the theater.

I love the art, the burning of the lights, the creaking of that wooden stage, and the fire that burns in my soul when I step into someone new. The feeling of the cloth on my skin, the euphoria of being someone I’m not, it excites me down in the deepest depths of my soul. There is something so spiritual about acting, of playing a part and living in constant mutability. I grow stronger, and the art grows with me. Sometimes I wonder, does she step in time with me in the shadows or do I step in time with her? Who am I without her? The answer is simple, I am me, and she is me, and we make a spectacular performance. I put all my energy, my life, and my light into her.

I fight like hell to be with her, I scream and kick and claw the eyes out of our enemies’ eyes if they dare to take her from me. She keeps me locked me in her love, in her hate, in her agony and pride. Those I’ve loved have fallen into her sweet embrace, but not as far as I have. She is and shall always be my first love.

I love theater but it is going to kill me.

Theater had been killing me slowly but surely, like a snake squeezing the life out of a rat. My lungs tighten, my chest aches and I fall into my knees and beg for sweet release but I pray that she never lets me go. When I am with her, I don’t sleep. I stay up for days on end, learning her poetry, studying her soul, attempting to understand her just a little. There have been days where I would only eat a morsel of any food, I’d spend that time memorizing the part she had for me. My body would wither and decay, but I’d come back, stronger than before, bolder too. Unfortunately for those who loved me, I was content with letting my mortal shell shrivel and die if I could only be with her.

Then I met him.

He is Dian in her orb, a benevolent creature that was somehow made to be a man. He’s practically perfect in every way. He is humble, kind, brave, with a beautiful smile and a clever wit to match. My love, my life, he is to me, what Annabel Lee was to Poe, my Claudio, My Cyrano, my everything. Nothing could part my heart from the heart of my love. However, there was one thing that I knew about him that would not be good for me.  He loves theater just as deeply as me. He's fallen into the habit of making his characters a piece of him. It's called method acting, it's an incredibly dangerous thing to do. It's driven people mad, it has taken lives. It is a sickness deep in the bowels of one's soul, of one's mind. He loves theater, he loves her so deeply that she has practically become his bride. You see, I have fallen so in love with him that I'd rather him live his life in love with her, than him too long for it while he's with me. He loves me, I know he does, he holds me and hugs me and makes me feel safe, but I am not his first love. His first love is the stage. Now I do not have the same affliction. I may love theater, but I love him more. I'd like her to go for the rest of my life just to spend a day with him. His love for her will kill me. Method acting breaks ones soul as well as mind. He may not know it but he plundges a dagger in me and he twists the hilt. His eyes will darken, his mind will be far away, and I will be left standing, blood trickling out of my mouth with eerie grace. Then his eyes will return to their warm brown light, his mind will be front and center, and he will hold me as I die. He will love me in those last moments, I know it.

Its not just his love for her that will eventually take my life, it's my worry for him. I am a motherly figure. I care for and tend to my loved ones with the gentleness of a grown women who has bore lovely children. My friends do stupid things. They run and jump, and fall and hurt and I am always there to pick them up, brush them off and whisper a loving word or two. They worry me half to death, in my mind every scratch could need a stitch, every cough could mean a sickness, every fall could be their demise. My love, my darling, out of all the one's I care for, he will be the one that worry’s me by an inch of my life. He is prone to twitches, which could lead to a seizure, which could lead to me, standing in a little black dress asking God ”why him and not me?” Even better, I have to keep it a secret. No one knows that he has those twitches but me. I swore on the day I said I would be his wife that I would take care if him. I know he is infinitely more terrified than I could ever be, so I must act like I am not afraid. Hiding that fear, bottling it up until it leaks out into my dreams, that will kill me. I love him even though he's dangerous, I married him because he is the cause of death that I would be so happy to endure. All those terrifying moments are worth all the good ones, all that fear and anxiety and sadness is worth every ounce of love he pours into me.

I love him, and I love the art form we dedicate our lives too. I love every frightening moment between me and my darling, I love that weakness in my body after starving it and depriving it from it's needed rest. In my heart, I know that theater will push me to the edge of the cliff, and my sweetheart will push me off it. However, I do not care for I am happy. If my love for my husband and the work we do is what eventually claims my life so be it. Death, nor disease, nor any amount of fear I feel, can take my joy away from me.