All The World’s A Stage

We all think everything in our lives is terribly important . We start the day rushing to get to work and then spend the rest of it careering around attempting to get things done . We get stressed and tired, and there seems to be no let up in all this vital doing .

If you have no job, you use up the time trying to find work to earn money to survive, and this is just as pressured as employment . Even in ‘your time’ you get worked up with all the things that need to be done . Everything is so critical .

Nothing is important ! Not even your death – especially not your death . Nothing we do is important unless we think it so . We are experiencing an extraordinary dream and life is nothing more than an illusion, and like all dreams it will soon be forgotten when we eventually wake up .

People far cleverer than me have tried to tell this truth to humanity but it hasn’t sunk in yet . Below is the best description of our illusory world I know, by someone very skilled with words, William Shakespeare from As You Like It .

Life is only experienced in the Mind . It’s not real !

All the world’s a stage
And all the men and women merely players .
They have their exits and entrances
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages .

At first the infant
Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms .
Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like a snail
Unwillingly to school . And then the lover,
Sighing like a furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress’eyebrow .

Then a soldier
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon’s mouth . And then the justice,
In fair round belly with capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut
Full of wise saws and modern instances
And so he played his part .

The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side,
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice
Turning again towards childish treble,
Pipes and whistles in his sound .

Last scene of all,
That ends this strange, eventful history
Is second childishness and mere oblivion
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything .

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