Gloster speaks for me

Now is the winter of our discontent
Made glorious summer by this sun of York;
And all the clouds that lour'd upon our house
In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.
Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths;
Our bruised arms hung up for monuments;
Our stern alarums chang'd to merry meetings,
Our dreadful marches to delightful measures.
Grim-visag'd war hath smooth'd his wrinkled front;
And now,--instead of mounting barbed steeds
To fright the souls of fearful adversaries,--
He capers nimbly in a lady's chamber
To the lascivious pleasing of a lute.
But I,--that am not shap'd for sportive tricks,
Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass;
I, that am rudely stamp'd, and want love's majesty
To strut before a wanton ambling nymph;
I, that am curtail'd of this fair proportion,
Cheated of feature by dissembling nature,
Deform'd, unfinish'd, sent before my time
Into this breathing world scarce half made up,
And that so lamely and unfashionable
That dogs bark at me as I halt by them;--
Why, I, in this weak piping time of peace,
Have no delight to pass away the time,
Unless to spy my shadow in the sun,
And descant on mine own deformity:
And therefore,--since I cannot prove a lover,
To entertain these fair well-spoken days,--
I am determined to prove a villain,
And hate the idle pleasures of these days.
Plots have I laid, inductions dangerous,
By drunken prophecies, libels, and dreams,
To set my brother Clarence and the king
In deadly hate the one against the other:
And if King Edward be as true and just
As I am subtle, false, and treacherous,
This day should Clarence closely be mew'd up,--
About a prophecy which says that G
Of Edward's heirs the murderer shall be.
Dive, thoughts, down to my soul:--here Clarence comes.


I am pretty certain that many did not take the time to read the entire opening soliloquy from Richard III. No problem. I didn't type out the whole darned thing either. I, for some strange reason, feel the need to reconnect with ol' Will theese days. In the past I have always been attracted to his comedies, but now it is Richard and Othello and other tragic characters who call out to me.


Unlike Shakespeare's Winter mine has remained and the rancor that built the walls in the first place have been supplemented by ingratitude and harsh judgement and the blocks cemented together by silence and indifference.

I find that it is good to get lost in words, either your own or those of others, when all your words, pleas and queries fall upon deaf ears. The hundreds of entries I have written in this and other places has been an escape. Unfortunately, no matter how often and how far I delve into books, I am never really very distant from reality.
I have been forced to question myself. Prodded by both my conscience and accusations.
The only problem with self examination is that you only come up with answers that your brain will allow and we all know that self opinion is not always reliable.
So I look toward my actions and wonder about the motivations behind them.
How does you know if you are "good"? And does it really matter?
How far do you have to go to remain true to a promise?
When is sefishness a positive trait and not a negative one?
How do I stop hurting those I care about and still find satisfaction and happiness?
Man o man I gotts start drinking again!
Where's that idiotic spork? I'm gonna stab something.