Everything inside feels fake. Everything that thus proceeds forth is therefore fake as well. If I were asked not to speak until I had reason to, silence would echo into eternity. The vast emptiness of space is filled with the deposits of my talent. The great halls and chambers of my heart are empty; dried ages ago from the vital life-force that invigorates the soul.
My coach once pondered why for me it was hard to not find these characters we create, a refuge unto these feelings. A skin to put on to allow oneself to forget the struggle that rages within: instead having another life and voice to give purpose to. Sprouting purpose where before it grappled to grow. But I find that I have nothing inside to offer these haunting sprites.
How to fill a shape that requires the utmost care and detail? A figure, time, and place that demands a rise from the actor. I expand my nothingness which only collapses in on its own weight; a black hole of talent that cannot hold the container from which it expands forth.
I start with something but I cannot sustain it.
Better is it to shut my mouth and appear wise
Than to open it and remove all doubt