The World is a Stage

My friends suggest I should write more—longer—enough to fill a book.

Oh, they flatter me, for I have nothing to say. But, they ask for themselves, and man must provide. He is not a good friend—who lets his own waste his talents.

Thus, must I search deeper for my emotions—find a darker hatred. Let it not be confused!—there is no love in this barren heart.

I know only dislike and disdain—focused like a beam of light, heaven-sent.

Let us consider the “alpha male.”

Who is he?—the womanizer? The king? The honest, God-loving man?

I hear alpha and think “Caesar.”

There was one who ruled mankind—and he came and left. Oh, top of the world!—who seduced the wives of his partners, and the Queen of Egypt. What champion of spirit!

For, he fought in his own wars, unafraid and unpretentious, submitting Gaul and bringing back its leader as a trophy. To his own wife, unfaithful, and she loved him still.

He—who moved mountains and army with the power of voice and spirit.

How woefully incomplete!

The wolf does not know it shall die—and Caesar, if he did, acted like it not. Just another predator, just another time. The world turns, indifferent.

How temporal! Look into his marble bust and see the face of a man who was once King. How a child could topple him, now!—oh, rigid marble, you hold no power over me.

Is this your hero?

Look at the “men” of today.

What—are you an alpha predator? The king has come and gone—and you are cheap counterfeit. In every measure, his lesser!

And I, who show him some respect—if I mention anyone by name, it is a highest compliment—shall show you none. You are a category, or less. All of you, the same—sad, sorrowful, disappointing cast of second-rate princes and nobles.

What can you take from me?

My life?—but you would do me a favor, for I tried long ago, and I could not finish the job. Take it all—I am cooler and colder than the Stoics. Not my woman, whom another can take—nor my child, not my house or job.

Let it go, and walk the Earth in poverty of spirit. Blessed is the meek, for to him belongs the Kingdom of Heaven. What shall you do to threaten me?

Oh, but I wish I could know!

I would like to learn of my superiors. Does he have but something to teach—an idea I have not considered? Then, let me soak him up!

Every drop of your soul, and your being, shall incorporate into mine. I shall take your image, make it whole, and present it to the world in my own aesthetic.

I am the artist and designer of this modern society, and you, humanity, are my canvas. Let me, the philosopher, paint a stroke of the image of life—and let you judge for yourselves.

The reader is like a woman. To show strength!—but never force.

Speak to him gently, roughly, honest and seductive. Writing is a dance!—and never let prose lose its sense of rhythm.

Forgive me, but I lack the strength to write long sections. Never do I edit—nor re-read. Once written, each word is indelible.

Behold true unfiltered spirit.

Better than Caesar is Christ, who made no compromise. For Caesar sold God—and I look about society, and I see Christ rejected, discarded at every turn.

Oh, pitiful soul… What shall we do with this country?

But I, in my vast spiritual wealth, am I purchase of Christ. And, when you sell him, I shall buy—and single-handedly, may I keep this market afloat.

This is no monopoly!—but, my time will come to an end. Shall there be buyers once I leave?

Does the engineer prepare the company for his absence? Indeed, he should automate himself—make his presence redundant.

Thus, does the philosopher ready society for a future without him. How soon may he leave!—and how much work remains.

One thousand minds to change—and a dozen villains. Write the cast of characters and set the scene! We all have our roles to play—and I play Godly man, and you?

Oh, come now, do not be a poor sport. The world is a stage, and God is the audience!

So, where shall you hide?