He said, “Try not to think of your theatre career as your identity.”

He said, “I’m not telling you to give it up, but make a conscious split.”

One show closed. Another opened and one was still running. The calls kept coming and the websites — the paid work, the valued work, the work of concrete value — fell even further behind schedule.

In a few months, all of this will have passed. I have deliberately extricated myself. In atonement, I have isolated myself.

In this state of trying to be less involved, I have to decide now, in this moment or the very next, my future for the next three years. Either I finish my application in January for my “terminal degree,” — and isn’t that an apt phrase? — or I wait for the next go-round in three years. Then, I will be 41. With my life less ahead of me than behind me, I start on a career of physical training. I consider myself a punctual person, but I arrived late to this understanding. In this moment, when I want to give up theatre entirely and crawl into a hole because I have nothing else to excite me, I have to choose.

Two young people are coming, ill-advisedly, to my home city. They’re newer to this craft than I am, but who gives a shit? I’ve spent ten years trying to convince people of its worth; why wouldn’t those same people hire the young hotshots for cheap over the tired, bitter curmudgeon who “overcharges?” I would, in their situation.

I am not someone who wants to hold anyone back. I loathe competition because it favors those without compassion. You must not care for your opponent if you want to win. Should art be about winning? No. In a capitalist society, however, it’s not immune.

I will give up. It is not only easier, it is the right thing to do. I am not so gifted that the world needs my art. My passion has waned, but there are many for whom the spark still burns hot. I am not so important that my absence will leave a dent. Those that understand know I am a fraud, those that give me praise do not understand.

Where does that leave me? On the couch, pressing buttons. In a chair, pressing keys. Waiting for my heart to stop, because it gave up long ago.