Monday, June 29, 2009

Post One-Hundred and Sixty-Nine.

Answer me this, anyone.

What makes you tick?
What pushes your buttons?

We're all fools to believe in immortality.

Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio: a fellow
of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy: he hath
borne me on his back a thousand times; and now, how
abhorred in my imagination it is! my gorge rims at
it. Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know
not how oft. Where be your gibes now? your
gambols? your songs? your flashes of merriment,
that were wont to set the table on a roar? Not one
now, to mock your own grinning? quite chap-fallen?
Now get you to my lady's chamber, and tell her, let
her paint an inch thick, to this favour she must
come; make her laugh at that.

But, why wallow? You've one life, yes? Then, don't regret. No matter what is thrown at you, take it head on.

From this point on, I don't want to regret. I want to apologize for all the wrong I've done to others. I want to grow. I want to learn. I want to live. I want to turn over a new leaf, yet not abandon the old.