2004-08-08

I am not Prince Hamlet

Silver-lined memories are such stuff, strewn with the untainted dew of dawn. As they imbibe the feathered innocence of youth, they fill our imagination�s golden cup to the brim--a viscous nectar that is the nourishment of souls.

Would we, by drinking this, become as immortal as our memories? Stringed together in our minds, they form the fragile pieces of a wind-chime that echoes in the depths of the night.

When night reaches my bedroom, and the clock tick-tocks on the wall, I cannot help but toss and turn at these things that are still in my head. While time has come, and like the frothy ocean wave washed off these images like it would some encryptions on sand, I still fail to erase them out of the crimson sands of my palpating heart.

I think of the people that have come and gone in my short lifetime, each one making their own performance on this stage of mine.

�...they all have their exits and their entrances, and each man in his time plays many parts...�

Some acts are worth remembering for what they were, but usually, we remember them because we cannot let go of what could have been.

For some strange reason (and my conjecture is because I am a romantic) I enjoy sitting on park benches and with hands in pockets, watching the world pass by slowly. Every minute is worth watching, and as I explore the feelings dancing within me, I lazily watch the others pass by. I wonder whether or not they notice these things, because at that very moment, they are all the objects of my contemplations, and I have a story for each one. I have a story for the man with the black coat who steps onto the city bus. I have a story for the hazel-eyed librarian, and for each waitress in every caf�. In my mind, they all go home to dark, unlit rooms. The drapes and lampshades are always champagne-coloured, and their footsteps always echo off of Spanish tile floors.

Everyday is a new feat, for it is everyday that I try to perfectly describe the world around me. With the rain trickling down, and the comings and goings, the numerous gardens, and the feel of going home after watching a play with friends.

�I found it trite,� she would say

�It was amusing,� he would swiftly respond

We all laugh, fancying ourselves long-time friends who have thrice lived through life, and making our way toward our own quaint homes with fireplaces, nooks, a gable, a thumbed-through book. The dog could lie on the rug, and peep his head up upon the jingling of my worn keys. I could have paperwork, coffee cups and tea cups, and a picture of a young nephew with his fishing pole.

But that would be my story, I suppose, being a physicist one day with a white lab coat and answering when people say, �Dr. so and so�.

After shaking my head and blinking, the man in the black coat has gotten on the city bus, the librarian is going home, and the waitresses have served their coffee.

�No! I am not Prince Hamlet nor was meant to be;

Am an attendant lord, one that will do

To swell a progress, start a scene or two,

Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,

Deferential, glad to be of use,

Politic, cautious, and meticulous;

Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;

At times, indeed, almost ridiculous--

Almost, at times, the fool.�---T.S. Eliot (The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock)

I close my notebook, and decide to go home.

�The hell with this,� I mutter to myself.

The matter could not be more simple: I enjoy writing, thus, I will write.

aeka at 3:43 p.m.