Wednesday, February 24, 2010

Quiet Ramblings

It seems that I don't know what to write. I believe I've come to a point where every thought I have seems meaningless or superficial. And there are no interesting stories to be told because my life is no epic poem; it's more of a tragedy. Not even a good tragedy, mind you, like Hamlet. My life is the lines scratched across the paper on Shakespeare's floor.

But now that I think about it, I think that is up for debate.

Maybe I am the worst written by Shakespeare or the best told by an unknown. I'd like that more, I think. To be a great play written by a previously unbeknownst man would be remarkable. To be the first of someone before they were magnificent. Everything after would be compared to me and somehow it would never be enough because I was great, I was marvelous, I was perfect.

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