all the world's a stage

how trite, hm? to begin with a beginning that isn't even my own. however, tonight is players' night. tonight is ripe for point and counterpoint. tonight my script is torn and illegible.

we begin in the evening: the host. i know this role, i perform it well. i have much practice. predict the guest will. i have a knack. but this night, a rogue thread twines the plot. the host is a bastard. he has forsaken his (holy) servitude for a shallow selfishness. he courses for a fight. but he is too cowardly to pursue such opportunities. what a night would be wrought with grasping arrows and desperate slings? not one to be regarded with frowning grunts of approval over scotch, no, not that at all.

there was a brief stint as lover, i do relish that role. it was one i was born for but so often disdain. i enjoy doing things well, so i play it well. that is not to say that my heart is not always in it. but tonight, it is stanza, not free verse.

what is one to do when they find themselves on their stage, when they would just as well be in the shade? should you beg off? should you play your part, as best as you might? what is right? what is honest? what will you be proud of later? so many questions, so many questions.

i hear that venus and the moon are in conjunction. i can't see through the swollen clouds. but i imagine them laughing, behind their curtain, no audience to yet judge their performance. free to do as they may.