LOVE IS NOT WHAT WE’VE ALWAYS BEEN TAUGHT.

LOVE IS NOT AN EMOTION.

LOVE IS NOT THE BUTTERFLIES IN YOUR STOMACH.

IF YOU CLING TO THE IDEA THAT THE BUTTERFLIES

IN YOUR STOMACH ARE TELLING YOU THAT

YOU’RE IN LOVE, THEN

YOU ARE NEVER GOING TO HAVE A LASTING RELATIONSHIP

BECAUSE BUTTERFLIES DIE.

LOVE IS A CHOICE.

THE CHOICES YOU MAKE CAN LAST FOREVER.

BUT BUTTERFLIES IN YOUR STOMACH FADE AWAY AND DIE.

LOVE IS NOT NERVOUSNESS.

LOVE IS A CHOICE.

IT IS A CONSTANT CLINGING TO SOMEONE

BECAUSE YOU WANT TO,

NOT BECAUSE YOU FEEL YOU NEED TO.

LOVE IS NOT SEEING PERFECTION IN SOMEONE’S EYES.

LOVE IS SEEING THE LIGHT AND THE DARK AND

CHOOSING TO HELP LIGHT UP THE DIM PARTS.

LOVE IS NOT THAT ELECTRICITY YOU FEEL

WHEN YOU KISS SOMEONE.

LOVE IS CHOOSING ONE PERSON’S KISS OVER EVERYONE ELSE’S

REGARDLESS OF HOW IT MAKES YOU FEEL PHYSICALLY.

LOVE DOESN’T JUST GO AWAY.

PEOPLE CHOOSE TO STOP LOVING ONE ANOTHER

BECAUSE LOVE IS A CHOICE.

PEOPLE DON’T WAKE UP NO LONGER LOVING SOMEONE.

PEOPLE WAKE UP CHOOSING TO NO LONGER LOVE SOMEONE.

IT DOESN’T JUST HAPPEN.

IT’S A RESULT OF A CHOICE.

PEOPLE CHOOSE TO LOVE OR TO NOT LOVE

BECAUSE LOVE IS NOT AN EMOTION,

LOVE IS A CHOICE.

LOVE IS A CHOICE.

LOVE

IS

A

CHOICE.

I can smell sage and California

As if she were calico

I can smell cottonwoods

I see gnarled twisted trunks

The emptiness that fills me

Quenches my thirst.

I hear stillness.

It leaves

A June bug's solitary ringing,

High pitched in my ears

Images of memory

To my pensive quiet mind

Yellow prairie grass

A phantom barn

Wavering across my eyes

On this distant, nostalgic land

I see a young, sun tanned freckled boy

With a frayed straw hat

Standing there in faded coveralls

A frog held upside down by its legs

Looking at me

Standing near the shadows

Of the cottonwood trees

I hear a stillness,

The June bug's solitary ringing

High pitched in my ears

I sit very still by a little pool

Reflecting

The summer shadows of the trees

With the light of blue sky

Of this painting in my eye

And I hear a

Stillness,

The June bug has

Its solitary ringing

High pitched in my ears

I see five black crows

Fly across the horizon of this

Lonely sky

Above the grey white

Bark of the cottonwood trees

Cawing loudly in the stillness

Broken only by the

Stillness,

The June bug has

Its solitary ringing

High pitched in my ears

Sun's light

Bright

Joy, child's expectation

In the sun

Was a child in a garden

Filled with insects strange

Quite wondrous

Joy, child's delight

Brilliant colors iridescent

Born in eyes so pure

Metallic reflections

In sparkling eyes

Joy, child's intrigue

In innocence I saw,

I smelled

Without thought

Or judgement,

Things called flowers

Joy, child's wonder

Things in shapes called birds

Things that flew

With feathers and eyes

Divine

Eggs in nests unique

Babies chirping yellow beaks

Necks stretched, reaching

For the light of the sun

Joy, child's rapture

The rain had fallen

Cool sweet air

In nostrils virgin flow

Puddles on pot holed paths

Reflecting

Upside down blue

Cattails, red winged black birds

Swimming, living bugs,

Magic fluid!

Little fish, baby frogs and Bubbles

There,

Just there

In the sun

Black dress draped upon your floor

Shoes lost a long time ago

Lipstick, smudged upon your neck

Surrounded in passion's kiss

You stumble, trying to undress

As I get drunk on your whiskey lips

Exploring gently with warm fingertips

Setting a fire, we won't forget

Collapsing onto your bed

Soon to be drenched in sweat

Body aching, please don't stop

Lose ourselves in each other's pace

Wrapped in your embrace

Until the sky is lit with the morning's rays

Then the spell of the night is broken

Hangover headache mixed with regret

As you and I realize what we did

Have you memorized my fake smile for that long

I gave up on words that never reached you like a forgotten song

Blow on my figure and watch it fade as smoke

Depression deformed my face I no longer need a cloak

On a loop of your back walking away while I stay

Maybe I don’t have the strength to make you look my way

If I ever say “I miss you please stay with me” would it matter ?

I’ve shielded my fear with a smile didn’t need an answer

What’s the life span of loneliness

How can I be called yours when all I see is blackness

John Harrigan is a founder of FoolishPeople and is one of the earliest pioneers of immersive theatre.

We met him in Hitchin to talk about writing, acting and his unusual method of getting feedback from audiences.

Prose asks what the catalyst was for him writing, acting in and producing such great art.

“When I left school I went into computers, but really didn’t enjoy it. I was always into all things artistic, so decided to go back to college to study music. The problem was that I wasn’t very musical. However, part of the course was drama, which was something that I loved. The kind of drama we were doing wasn’t my kind of thing though, it was musical theatre. They had a writing and devising lecturer called Les Tucker, and it was through him that I got to write some of my own stuff; my own plays. People responded to them. I think a gift I have always had, has been that I’m very imaginative, I tend to come up with a lot of ideas. So I started doing my own work and decided to go to drama school.”

“I found drama school restrictive insofar as it was all about the acting; you could only be one thing. You could be an actor OR a writer, and at this stage I wanted to be all things. As is often the case with creative people, I had no money and came from a working class background. I started FoolishPeople when I was still at art school on a scholarship. I couldn’t realistically run with it financially, and so became a social worker in residential settings working for a number of different charities that were engaged with helping people.”

“After 10 or 11 years of that, I no longer felt I was effectively assisting those people as I should, yet I did when I was doing my art. So I went back to it full time. I started with a locally with a project called ‘Singularity’ and on the back of that I relaunched FoolishPeople. I’ve never looked back since. I had been so eager to go back to it after the break, and I could never return to ‘normality’ now. That’s what fuels me.”

Prose asks what his creative process is when he’s writing a piece.

“With each new project I learnt my working practise. Not many people realise this, but a big part of our work is based on text. I’ll spend ages thinking about and writing a script, and then I’ll hand it over to the members of FP. It all starts with the written word. Then there’s a long rehearsal process and then the public get to see it, whether as a film or immersive theatre.”

“Through doing it again and again over twenty five years, we've learnt what works best. I think most creatives get knocked back a few times and sometimes feel like they can’t continue anymore, but I believe that’s part of the process. I’ve made some stupid mistakes. The mistakes probably equal the successes. All of my mistakes are the things that have made me the artist I am today and the end result so much better. Unless people have been doing it long enough, they don’t realise that.”

What was it like to deliver Strange Factories, the horror film that has polarised audiences so hugely?

...

Find out later today, and take advantage of a special EXCLUSIVE offer from Harrigan just for Prosers, by visiting blog.theprose.com. Look for a link in the comments (below) this afternoon.

I'm too good at pretending. I don't even know how to take off the masks.

- -

I can't hide it anymore, it hurts, I can't pretend, but I can, I have to, a little bit longer...

- -

That day will never come.

- -

If she feels the same, then I am complete.

- -

But I can't, I'm drowning... forget this.

- -

Te quiero, te necesito, mi corazon.

- -

I want you, I need you.

- -

She's pretty, but you're beautiful.

- -

If only I was half the things you deem me to be, I would feel justified in loving you.

- -

I'm scared it's over. I loved you. I loved loving you. I loved that warm, excited feeling when I was with you, and now I'm scared that it's over... I'm scared that I stopped loving you.

- -

Never mind. I still love you. More than I did before.

- -

Do you know why I love you?

- -

You're the only one who's accepted that I'm not perfect. That I'm not the angel or the demon that everyone makes me out to be.

- -

You've realised that I have flaws too, that I make mistakes.

- -

You've accepted that my cover-ups aren't as graceful as other people see them.

- -

But I haven't even gotten to the real confession yet.

- -

Here goes nothing.

- -

I'm a horrible person.

I lie and cheat and steal.

My brain naturally calculates things based on how much they're worth.

Even people.

But for some reason, you're at the top of the "worth it" list and you're not worth a damn important thing.

Why are you at the top?

Why can't I spend a minute without you without feeling lonely?

Why are you the first person I talk to, the person my schedule revolves around, the person my mind revolves around?

Because I'm in love.

That's the only logical answer, and I want it to be real.

I want someone to hold me in their arms and tell me it's alright, that they love me and I have nothing to fear.

I want to hold someone in my arms and tell them that it's alright, that they have nothing to fear, and I'll love them forever.

I'm so fake, even to myself.

I feel like laughing.

A weight's been taken off my shoulders, but I'm just saying that to be poetic, right?

I should move to Mars.

...

Oh, and I love you.

I love you so much it hurts to hide it, to hide the feeling inside when I brush your shoulder.

It hurts when I brush away every compliment you give because how will you react if I told you the truth?

And all the time I don't know if I'm lying or not and it hurts when I cry because it's all fake, why am I even crying?

Even the reason's a romanticized lie I made up, right?

Is it?

Am I mad?

Are you?

My lies are so believable that they're second nature to me.

Even I believe my own lies and I don't even know if they're lies or not.

Sometimes I'm scared to feel, to think, because WHAT IF IT'S ALL A LIE MY MIND CREATED?

I lie, I lie not.

I lie, I lie not...

Oh look, a double petal. Is this flower a lie, too?

I'm gone.

I love you.

At least I think I do.

- -

All these words are from my heart.

All these words have broken my heart, once.

It's up to you now.

Will you mend my heart, or shatter it further?

Dead

Dead

Dead

That's what the voices said

It came out gushing red

Down below her head

As we grow up we begin to fear silence

Afraid to be alone with ourselves

As kids silence was a time for imagination

Now it's an internal examination

Ever wonder why so little take the time to pray

Probably because we're trained to keep our thoughts at bay

We are constantly staring at screens

Or engaging in shallow conversations

We hardly notice the time fly by

Rarely stop and ponder "who am I"

So worried about our image that the surrounding eyes reflect

That we don't self reflect and behind our own eyes inspect

With others opinions we'd be less concerned

If we took the time to look within and learn

Who we are and who we want to be for ourselves

And quit letting others determine our self wealth