My being is too heavily loaded with hopes and fears. While the ground on which I stand and the pillars of my existence are being ripped apart, crumb by crumb, I can't even address myself to weeping but spend whole weeks of involuntarily increased interaction with other people. We're staging
Hamlet.
Is it not monstrous how not delicate fortune sometimes is?
It harrows me with fear and wonder. Life keeps throwing me into puddles of trouble, being deaf to my pleading. And I, society's slave, keep spending time finding the right plugs, oiling bits and pieces of the
seeming-being-machine, keeping my life's mechanism going,
peak like John-a-dreams.
And then there are those occasional rays of sun, too unexpected to produce authentic and light happiness;
sweet, not lasting. Bitter at the second sight. Low fat happiness for a moment,
the suppliance of a minute...a drug
of such airy and light a quality that... . No more.
But
there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so. Thus, shall I forget my sorrows and
suck the honey of his music vows? Shall, figuratively, smoke
the fat weed that roots itself in ease on Lethe wharf, and
be merry?
Why, what an ass am I. YOU KNOW WHAT TO CHANGE, BUT NOT IN WHAT WAY.
[curtain]
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