the Yoricks

Every time I have a conversation, I feel strained, vague, and distant. Approaching vanishing point.

[You must have noticed that this blog no more caters to the promise of laughter. It is much defeated. You are no more in my mind. I am.]

And sometimes I just leap out of myself and watch me master the inconsequential profiteering of idle time. I never monopolize a conversation. I hardly listen anyway. You would never know. I can repeat what you say, I am sure. And I will throw in flattery betwixt these recollectory words. You would never notice what went amiss. When you shall retrieve, you will think of me, and think of you, have a small smile to your lips, and pat your shoulder a little for having had emerged as victorious this last moment. with me. And in the meanwhile, secretly, you are preparing for your next moment. A secret unto you. We don't realize but we are always prepared for our next moment. whatever, however, wherever it be. Magic.

Life is a series of performances. Each moment you willingly, unselfishly, unconsciously, dedicate to the other. You give your best performance each time.


We are always quite, playing the Shakespearean fool. Where be our gibes?