Acting is emminently mortal, as are all of the performing arts. You practice and rehearse, and perform for a little, and then it's done. Dead. Over. It is not complete, but it's gone anyway. Performing artists tend to mourn the end of a play, musical, or other expression.
I just finished Candide. I was the Baron, the Grand Inquisitor, an old Spanish Don, and a Sailor. Now, I can't get the downer songs out of my head.
Life is neither good nor bad:
Life is life, and all we know.
Good and bad, and joy and woe,
are woven fine, are woven fine.
All the travels we have made,
all the evils we have known,
even paradise itself,
are nothing now, are nothing now.
Make our Garden Grow:
Let dreamers dream what worlds they please:
these Edens can't be found.
The sweetest flowers, the fairest trees,
are grown in solid ground.
We're neither pure, nor wise, nor good.
We'll do the best we know:
We'll build our house, and chop our wood,
and make our garden grow.
...and now I can't stop crying.