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all the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players

November 26, 2009

It’s complicated. I have all these thoughts and emotions swirling around inside my head that I can’t get out. They haunt me with their feelings and ideas. They possess me with their relentless ferocity. I want to let them out, to set them free by giving them a voice, but they don’t seem to want to leave. I confuse people with my words. I say things I’m not even sure I mean, or if I do, it’s not quite like how it sounds. I want them to understand, but I’m not sure if they can.

Now I understand why I was the way I was in high school. I want to be that way again. To close myself off from everybody and express myself in other ways. My art. My poetry. My anti-social, self-destructive behaviour. To be as tormented on the outside as I am on the inside.

It’s nobody’s fault. I don’t know why I’m the way that I am. I don’t have some deep, dark secret about my childhood. No abuse. No real trauma to speak of. I’m not mentally ill (at least not medically speaking anyway). And yet, here I am, trying to give a voice to these ghosts of what once might’ve been my humanity. But then, I’m just being overly dramatic. Of course I’m human, whether or not I feel that way. I’m just like everyone else, except I don’t have much of a stomach for this thing called life.

Life’s a play (without much of a plot it would seem), and we’re nothing more than actors putting on a show before the curtain comes crashing down. And most of us either think there’s some big playwright up in the sky watching us and waiting to reward the good performances with heaven and punish the bad ones with hell, or we think the play itself is all there is and that we might as well have as much fun with our roles as we can before the curtain falls.

But what of those who think neither? The ones who throw away their masks in disgust? The ones who set fire to the stage and tear down the curtain with their own two hands? The ones who see the play for what it is and want no part of it? What of us and our bitter scorn?

And still my heart wages war against even this! It battles with love and compassion for all the actors on the stage, and with admiration for the beauty of the play itself. The turmoil just another act playing itself out on an internal stage, and wouldn’t you know it, I’m playing my role despite myself! What a clever creation, so perfectly insidious in its designerless design. Maybe one day I’ll find a way to exorcise these phantoms, these thoughts and emotions that won’t give me any peace. Maybe one day I’ll find a way to make people understand.

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2 Comments
  1. Man you sound just like me. People are so absorbed in vain and arbritary things to get themselves off the formless nature of nature. This situation it seems is a problem to most people or a journey.. some sort of starting point. Birth then death.. comprised with emotions that apparently have definitions.. They find fear in this world, they're afraid of what will happen to them. But what is fear but an emotion? And who is this “I” who doesn't exist out of your head? I'm sure you already know all this by now since I was directed here via the newbuddhist forum but just in case you still attach to these non-existent definitions of emotion here's the website that got me to a state of relative “calmness” after I had frequent “fear” and “anxiety” attacks over the apparent absurdity of life — goto.bilkent.edu.tr/gunes/zen/zenphilosophy.htm

  2. Thanks for the link. I'll be sure to check it out.

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