Everybody wants to be happy. Everyone wants to live a fulfilled life. We all want to fall in love with someone, to feel wanted and secure. We all live in fear of not reaching our goals. We all want the perfect relationship. But is there such thing as the perfect relationship? Is there such thing as love? is there such thing as happiness? Or are we just kidding ourselves? We all want to look attractive and make money and be popular and well-respected and admired. We all worry about the future. But are any of us truly happy with our life? With who we are? And what we have? Not everyone can look at themselves in the mirror and see themselves for who they truly are. Happiness requires struggle. We struggle everyday of our lives; through the crap and the mud. We repeat the same old routine every day. And what’s it all for. Some days we have good days, but the bad seem to out way the good ones. You can only avoid pain for so long before it comes roaring back to life. We all wrestle alone in the darkness, and only we can try to understand ourselves. No matter how much we start with, we always seem to end up with less. Are any of us truly happy? We show people we are happy by the smiles we all wear. Can we really rely on anybody? And if you do, more than often they let you down. Do we really have friends? Or are we just living to satisfy other people? Can we look life in the face, to look life in the face and to know it for what it is? Can any of us remember when were truly happy? Can any of one recall a morning when they woke up and felt a sense of possibility. You know, that feeling? To think to yourself, so, this is the beginning of happiness. This is where it starts. This performance is about two women. Virginia Woolf and Sylvia Plath, who you’d expect to be happy. One had a loving and caring husband and the other had a two children, who she loved dearly. One was a respected poet, and the other a famous novelist. But in the end that was not enough for them.
It seemed that the only way they could cry out to the world was through pen and paper.
And if that didn’t work…then death was the only way out.