All the Worlds a Stage .. but have I just got a bit part ?
Shakespeare said that ..”All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players” .. and I think he had a point, although he could usefully have added that it’s often not clear what play we’re in or even what part we’re supposed to be playing.
Naturally, we all see ourselves as having the lead role in the unfolding drama (or farce) that is our life. There may be other significant actors, of course, and extras who stroll onstage to contribute a few lines to the plot before exiting never to be seen again, but always we are center-stage under the spotlight in our own play. The story is about us. It’s not quite as simple as that, though, because we’re all actors in someone else’s play too, with walk-on parts or starring roles.
But what happens when you find yourself in the wrong play ? The one where you think you’re Juliet to someone else’s Romeo but it becomes clear from their actions that you only figure in their script as a bit player ? I suppose when that realization dawns all you can do is exit stage left with the best grace you can muster, hoping none of the audience noticed your mistake.
Cloggy;—Profound but so true.
Absolutely - I love this, “we’re all actors is someone else’s play too.”
I’m thinking about the summers of my youth, looking out the window and remembering warm days, freezies (ice lollies), endless hours that were never enough to, ride bikes, swing to touch the sky, play hopscotch or spin hula hoops, build forts (dens), go to the beach and only come home when it was dark and parental threats compelled us. Summer would not have been complete though without a bug catcher. In the interests of strong narrative I have searched for the aforementioned item to show you. What a joy when I found it, transporting me back to the cruel and wonderful years of my childhood. It was misnamed really, that innocent looking plastic container with the air holes (it also had a removeable lid, and usually came with a tiny plastic magnifying glass and yes, the plastic plant with plastic bugs, just to encourage you). It would have been more aptly named a bug crematorium or maybe a bug mortuary. I would spend hours looking for irridescent beetles, ladybirds (they always left a little yellow pee-like stain on your hand), hairy black and orange caterpillars, or my favourite, the inch worm. I would gather a small jungle of foliage to give my captives a comfortable home, put a bottle cap lid of water at the bottom and be satisfied they could not find better accomodation elsewhere. Except perhaps their own habitat. It is a heavy burden of guilt I have carried all these years, a wonder it makes me so happy to look at these torture devices. You will have realised what my four year old self could not - that being behind the plastic only concentrates the heat, that I didn’t have a clue what insects needed to live and theirs was a slow death at the hands of well meaning ignorance. Yet, despite the guilt I should be feeling, all I can do is smile at my photo find. For this meant summer, long days and the promise of fun, scraped knees, climbing trees and freedom. Not for my prisoners though.
“A smile is the best way to get away with trouble, even it it’s a fake one.”
What bored adosescents get up to in Walmart.