You read my blog?

I’ve been absent for a while. I was in a show in London. I was moving back home and painting my room. I was visiting my Grandmother in hospital.

You read my blog. Someone, out there. I hope you liked it. I suppose I’ve been living. I started writing a book. I do not know if I am able to write well, but I can experience, and I think I can translate what I experience into novel form. I hope I understand my fellow man well enough. I know I don’t know my fellow woman enough; I’m learning.

The show in London, where I stood on a stage with a celebrity. Where I was told I would be on television, if only for a second. Where I was surrounded by people I would know only briefly, and people I have known for longer, whom I am done with knowing. I don’t mean to sound pessimistic. I know that I am beyond lucky. It is not luck, my life, it is privileges that have been handed down to me thanks to my forefathers, as I discussed in my last blog.

It was, I think, life-changing. I realised that that is not who I want to be. I do not want to be the person on the stage. I do not want to be a puppet for the works of others, no matter how great.

It was The Royal Variety, I was singing on stage with many others (see if you can spot me, white T-shirt). At the after-party, I met people in the Les Misérables cast, West-End performers, people whom I felt I ought to have admired, yet when I spoke to them, I felt shallow. I have never wanted to be a hanger-on. Someone who follows a celebrity around, grabbing onto their coattails. That is exactly what I was. I grew tired of speaking to them, and was disillusioned when I realised these are not the kinds of people I want to be around. They are performers; they are some of the best musical theatre performers in the world, that is all they know. They are not my kind of people. I want to be behind the stage, writing it, making it happen. I was angry when I left the party. I was not the person I wanted to be. I must learn who I am alone; then I can find who I want to be with. I cannot know who I want to be with until I know who I am.

My best friend believes I should take work as a copywriter. As long as I’m writing and getting paid for it. I could do it. I could probably do it well. And I would probably get paid well for doing it; at least I would be getting paid something. Money is running out, slowly but surely.

I have moved back home to help my family whilst my Grandmother… I am close to my grandmother. I didn’t go to see her as much as I should have in the past few years. I went when I was home. I travelled a lot. Now she is almost gone. She has dementia. I will see her tomorrow. I hope she still remembers me. We play draughts when I go. Last week, she was beating me. A couple of days ago, we called it a draw. Tomorrow? I am afraid. I can’t speak more about her tonight. I am too tired and am not ready to cry yet. I haven’t cried about it. Not yet. I’m worried that suppressing my emotions is harming me. I refuse to cry in front of her, I will not let her know she is making me cry. Nor will I cry in front of my mother who has shed enough tears, or my father, in front of whom it would not feel right to cry. I’m afraid I’m losing a part of myself, suppressing a part of who I am that must be heard.

I’m learning who I want to be. I look forward to telling you. You. There really is a you. Maybe it’s only bots reading this. Or someone feeding it into an AI machine for some reason. At least something has read it. I’m using this as a journal more than anything. As a way of keeping track of my life. I feel grounded. Knowing this will exist for a while. An imprint.

Today was a good day. I am experiencing life and have decided to document it. Tomorrow I will do my best to give it my all. Can I give everything I have to tomorrow? I must save some for my grandmother 6pm-8pm.

My grandmother is beautiful. My grandmother lived a good, long life. My Grandmother is dying. I will miss her.