Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing
William Shakespeare— Macbeth (Act 5, Scene 5, lines 17-28)
How I can desire inspiration and yet start with existentialism is a conundrum I am unable to solve yet. But these words give me a kind of hope that none others have before and hence, I start with them. I start at the end.
