This waiting 'round's killing me

I'm standing backstage at whatever that space was called in the hulking white warehouse at the foot of I-794 and edge of the Third Ward. Waiting for my cue, which I believe was the first of the longer guitar chords, the ones that go dun duuuun, dah duuun. (I really should figure out what those are) in this one. 

And every time I hear it, I'm there again. What I was wearing, my character's name, god, even the name of the play, I'm not sure any more without thinking harder. 

But I do remember the feeling of waiting to begin something, to cross from the dimly-lit real backstage into the hot and harsh and exciting unreal. 

I'm waiting to get there again, but, damn, it's a long wait, and it's filled with doing a lot of other shit that is grayscale, unending, requires brain parts that are already exhausted, too full of nitpicky details. 

I'm not even sure I want to go back there, but I do know I can't stay here. As the wise man said, You don't have to go home but...