#cpbt

Exposição por um fio. Venham. #CPBT (em Theatro José de Alencar)

#CPBT que noite lindaaaaaa. Muito trabalho de corpo 🎭 Teatro José de Alencar

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So guess who's starting the first week of November on five hours of sleep? It's 01:03 am currently, and I am not yet asleep despite the looming fact that I have work tomorrow. I have just turned the laptop off and am on my phone because I'm responsible like that. Actually, I have just been typing up a few tidbits for this story I had been weaving for the past months when I'd realised how late it was - or maybe it's early. This story is borne of an idea that came to me in an egg from a stork that flew right onto our window. It had been a warm June, and if I'm being perfectly honest, I don't even think that this idea was supposed to come to me. It just - That's enough. Sleep deprivation is weird. Anyhoo. Last summer, in the month of June, I thought of a thought inspired by a red phone booth. It wasn't a very special phone booth, and to be perfectly honest, it didn't even seem functional as its sole purpose is for props for when people had photo shoots and the like. And its lack of importance in digital communication is what brought forth an idea and then another idea came after that, one with seemingly notorious organisations and conspiracies and mysteries. And from then on, people started appearing in these ideas of mine. A teenage girl who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. A man who is in the wrong place and god knows what time it is. How long has he been here? Time, he realised, is very weird indeed when you're in captivity. And then, of course, the phone booth remained, and where before it had been seemingly dysfunctional, the girl realises it is, in fact, fully functional - with a function just different from its conventional function. From here on, more people came. Some of them are bad and some are good. Some are just there living in the neighbourhood. (I'm sorry that was bad please ignore that thx) Many months have passed since June and now we are in November. I am currently 22,000 or so words into it. On some days I think of what a huge amount of words I've managed to string together to become slightly coherent that could actually tell a story. On most days, however, I think of how little I've accomplished and how much I still have to do. Very much, I think morosely as I sit in front of the Word document, not typing anything. It's weird because the last time I'd felt this excited about a story plot of mine, is when I was... thirteen, I think. The title is very cheeky, now that I look back on it, and I remember how every single day - without fail, mind you - I'd type a page or so. I'd actually made it to thirty-two chapters, 100,000+ words long. Then the laptop got sick and poof goes the story. All thirty-two chapters and hundred thousand words. I never retrieved the file. It was unretrievable, said the man in the blue shirt. I'd moved on with a heavy heart and bouts of sudden writer's block. So far with this current story, I'd only managed to lose three chapters. I'd sort of got them back - sort of, but not quite, because the new results are not exactly like the ones I've lost - so all is well, I suppose. Why am I writing this again? I thought I had a point. It's 01:34 am now. I should probably sleep. I heard it's good for human beings like me.