no one here gets out alive. -jim morrison.
of recent i have been pondering if it worth the fight. taking stock on what it is i’ve done, where im going and if the game is worth the gambit. trying to decide what might be left to keep me anchored. why does man get up each day…is it simply because our eyes keep opening? and what awaits? certainly there are things in the future that will be worth celebrating, but beyond this what can one grasp when grappling with their purpose? why am i here and what will keep me grounded here?
running between meetings i find a busyness in the office i have been building. in a small company you have to fill many roles, when it is yours they all land on you at some point. the market has softened due to stronger competition, trade wars and simply a changing market, so i have had to step up my game. i recall a friend once told me, if the game was not easy then we would not want to play it. the difficult makes it more interesting. two new projects await, both in an area of business that i am interested in but have not ventured into but im sure will be challenging.
my son recently got in a scooter accident. luckily he was not hurt, but the axel was bent and the panels got beaten up. after agreeing to help him fix it, i asked him about the accident. he recalled it happened so quickly, a driver out of nowhwhere in another scooter ran into him while looking at his phone. my son thought no big deal of it and waved the guy off after the brief encounter. no police, no name, no chance of payments to the broken scooter i had rented. it took a bit of back and forth, but he realizes that if someone breaks his stuff in the future he should at least get their name. at some point i know the advice will stop although im not sure just when.
—–
“All the world’s a stage”
(from As You Like It, spoken by Jaques)
All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms;
And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress’ eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon’s mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lin’d,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper’d pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well sav’d, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion;
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
