Immortality Is Wasted On The Immortal

Reading historical fiction always leaves me in a weird head. I feel melancholy, futile, inspired, and restless, simultaneously. Reading about the day-to-day lives of actual people always reminds me that we’re very temporary here, that one day, soon enough, we’ll all be gone and there will be an entirely new crop of people, perhaps even reading historical fictions about some of us. That we spend our precious, brief time fretting and strutting upon our little stages like everyone who has ever lived has done. And whenever I try to write about it, it always sounds so trite...



Because our blogs are so personal to us and are often daily accounts of our lives, what are you going to do, or have done to your’s when it’s you time to go to that big blog-a-thon in the sky?

If all the world’s a stage and all we are is just a bunch a poor players that fret and strut our hour upon it and then are heard no more, then the point of life would be to…

• Fret less,
• Strut faster,
• Reject Shakespeare and all his footnotes,
• Click “Next Blog",
• Start your own stupid blog and hope to God somebody, someday, has the good sense to start quoting you for once, or,
• Find your bliss, market your bliss, die famous.