I'm a decaying piece of organic matter, but you can call me Claire. I'm a bookworm, isolated in the depths of non-reality, I live in splotches of color and orangey sunsets-- sometimes even in the absence of color at all, like a boring newspaper spread on Sunday mornings. I breath and long, intricate sentences come out, weaved neatly of beautiful adjectives and solemn metaphors. I whisper activism in my deepest sleep. I am alive in the most ways possible, I have an eye for beauty and an ear for music. I sit alone sometimes and ask the world why I'm here, and I still haven't got much of an answer. I will never give up on asking. I will never stop thinking, and I like that about myself.
To be, or not to be?
That is the question. Weather tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or to take arms against a sea of troubles and by opposing, end them? To die; to sleep: no more. And by a sleep to say we end the heartache and a thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to. Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished. To die; to sleep: to sleep… perchance to dream. Ay, there’s the rub! For in that sleep of death what dreams may come when we have shuffled off this mortal coil? Must give us pause, for there’s the respect that makes calamity of so long life. Who would bare the whips and scorns of time? The opressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely, the pangs of despised long, the laws delay, the insolence of office and spurns that patient merit of the unworthy takes? When he himself might his quietus make with a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bare, to grunt and sweat under a weary life? But that the dread of something after death, the undiscover’d country from whose bourn, no traveller returns puzzles the will, and makes us rather bare those ills which we have than fly to others that we know not of. Thus conscience does make cowards of us all and the native hue of resolution is sickled o’er with pale thought and enterprises of great pith and moment. With this reguard, their currents turn awry and lose the name of action. —Soft you know! The fare Ophelia. Nymph, in thy orisons. Be all my sins remember’d!
Badda bing. badda boom.
memorized.
