I'm Sitting on the train, reading random smutty fanfics, and a dark luxurious french Song begins on my player. By the ocean, the river,by the banks of the sea. I don't recall the real translation, but it Sings of dark love, maybe unrequited, maybe forbidden, or secret. Next thing I Know, I'm spot- remembering another dark luxury, a play I'd been in too long ago. I didn't deserve it, and the reality can never live up to how I remember it - how I should have done my part, how and who should have done other things. It is a delicious madness that lives in me now, my guilty pleasure. This ethereal perfection is mine alone and has no one else's mercurial tastes to cater to. It still surprises me when I revisit the Cenci; I always assumed my mind would tire of poking that sore tooth, or else show it dressed in evil rags and held up to ridicule myself as the talentless boob I perceive myself to be. Instead I reinvent it to match what should-have-been. There is regret, even resignation (this is the play that taught me I really was not intended for the stage) but there is also the fae reality that lives on, the true appearance beyond the veil of this world, these human eyes. A clarity of intention, I guess, that belies the physical.
I could also just be full of shit with a good imagination. And that's cool too, although a *lot* less poetic. :D