I did not sleep well last night. The words of MacBeth tormented my soul, "Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow creeps in this petty pace from day to day to the last syllable of recorded time; And all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! ...It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing."
I hear Shakepeare lamenting the futility of his plays not imagining the impact they would have on the many. Even if he had known, I think he would have still continued his lament as the great, wise King Solomon did in Ecclesiastes. "For there is no remembrance of the wise more than of the fool for ever; seeing that which now is in the days to come shall all be forgotten. And how dieth the wise man? as the fool." Ah the futility of the life that we hold so dear.
I am a fool to think that by being heard I will gain more significance. My voice feels duly lost in the crowd. Yet I will cry out amongst the others of that which is true, the whole duty of man will calm the sounds and furies.
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