But in a fiction, in a dream of passion,
Could force his soul so to his own conceit
That from her working all his visage wann'd,
Tears in his eyes, distraction in's aspect,
A broken voice, and his whole function suiting
With forms to his conceit? and all for nothing!
What's Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba,
That he should weep for her? What would he do,
Had he the motive and the cue for passion
That I have?"
There are times in my life when I have felt like Hamlet, as I'm sure we all have. There are brief moments where something demands a true emotional response, where love, life, and woe are strong enough that we should act in passion. Those places where should do something rash, where we should scream and yell, punch and shove. But we don't. We convince ourselves, in a moment of complacency, that it is better to live with the current dilemma than create the situation necessary for change, better to avoid the awkward conversation and endure the constant feeling. All while knowing the sting of the moment would be preferable to living in the sludge of constant less-than whole, the pang of missing, or the fury of the missed moment.
But even more I am baffled by the Players in this world; those that act without hesitation, cry even when the pain is not there own, or even non-existent. Making the greatest mountains out of the smallest tribulations and trials is there daily habit, and it pains me every moment. Partly because their complaints wear on me to no end, but mostly because there passion is something I can't adapt, even when it counts.
I live exclusively by rational thought and logic. If I think my head is unfit to make the wise decision, I put it off until my mind is clear and my countenance prepared to make it.
I think I am like Hamlet because I live in my head. I presume there is an answer inside, deep down. A clear answer, not wrought with the presumptions of ego. And because I guess, and then second guess, and then question my guesses, and because I live so fully in my left hemisphere, where structure reigns supreme, my words come too late. Like Hamlet, who caught his uncle through careful plodding, catching him in his moment of guilt before he could strike.
But most situations aren't so cut and dry as proof. Emotions and how to act on them wisely, as much as you think and ponder, will elude true answers because there ultimately aren't any. And when no answer is correct, why not act on passion for once, and just when it counts?
I guess, really, I just want to scream. Not for no reason, but because there is good reason. There is enough trial and tribulation and it's hard enough just to live without wanting to do something rash. I just want to go in the streets, free from inhibition, and scream to the world until my voice is soar, my body trembling, and aggression let loose to the winds.
But that's not acting in anyone's best interests, is it?