The Apostrophe

 Now is the Winter of our discontent, 
made idle summer by this sun of wild.

A definitively vain statement, but what is writing, other than structured, hopefully somewhat humble, vanity?  

Humble vanity; modest selfishness.

 I am, however, the son of this place, so I am allowed some mild vanity and artistic license in my little mountain town, even if it does involve the Bard, whom I don’t compare to at all, but was one of those epic creatives that I always strived to live up to in my painfully mundane childhood.

 The opening line, for whatever reason, is one I’ve been repeating over and over in my head, along with the others: namu dai bosa, che mala fortuna, immer etwas, aufgeben, nana korobi ya oki, la vita e bella, tabula rasa, et fucking cetera.

My Stratford is still slowly destroying me.

I am not a fan of most of Shake-spear’s work, especially the drawn out dramatic histories like Richard the three.  I do somewhat relate, though, to this soul who “cannot prove a lover,” and is “determined to be a villain,” not so much as I relate to being “deformed, unfinished, sent before his time into this breathing world, scarce half made up.”  The main reason why I have always been so detached from those who would be, could be, friends, and have willingly suffered the miseries of solitude and isolation, is because I have always felt so completely out of place in this world where everyone else seems to fit into the puzzle perfectly fine.  When I discovered that most people were just faking it, trying desperately to be what they’re told they’re supposed to be, I immediately refused that, and detached myself from what was expected of me, if only to say “fuck you, fates.  What are you gonna do now?” 

 I am still somewhat heartbroken hearing people’s stories.  I compare my own life to other’s on a regular basis, and realize more and more that I didn’t really have it that bad, but I already knew that and still refuse to accept it; my beef was always in being forced to deal with mundane comfort when I wanted an epic tragedy; I need something to write about.  I can live vicariously through other people’s tragedies, though.

…and this epic swan of Avon, whether I like it or not, will always be a huge part of my life, having played so many of his (or their) penned characters by accident.  Most of my story revolves around some act of some play of some epic.

HG

Oh my, there is a lot to decipher there; 

Bill would be proud.