Shakespear

Dec 31, 20243 min read

It’s 2 a.m., and surprise, I’m awake—again. Apparently, my body has decided that 45 hours of sleep this week is more than enough. And the meds? They’re finally doing their thing. My sinuses are drying out, and for the first time in days, I can breathe without feeling like I’m trying to inhale through a soggy sponge. Not exactly winning the lottery, but I’ll take it.

To kill time (because staring at the ceiling lost its charm around hour two), I flipped on Netflix and stumbled across The Man Inside. It's one of those shows that sneaks up on you, you know? It’s about a guy who goes undercover in a retirement home—equal parts touching and thought-provoking, with just enough weird to keep it interesting. Watching it hit me like a sack of emotional bricks because, of course, it reminded me of my dad. You know, that whole chapter of his life when he had no choice but to move into one of those places because taking care of himself just wasn’t an option anymore.

In the show, there’s this Shakespeare class, and after someone passes away, they recite All the World’s a Stage. And let me tell you, those words? Hauntingly perfect. They capture life in a way that’s so painfully honest—this fleeting, ever-changing dance where we just keep stepping from one act to the next, pretending we know the choreography.

It felt especially fitting with the New Year creeping in, like the whole thing was some sort of cosmic nod to fresh starts. Kind of like Charlotte’s big ending speech in Charlotte’s Web—you know, the one where she talks about how the world keeps turning, and everything has its time? ‘You’re born, you live a little, then you die,’ she says, and it’s just this quiet, beautiful reminder that life moves in its own rhythm. It’s that same vibe, this reflection on life’s little cycles, and somehow, it just felt like the perfect moment for the year to change, even if we’re not sure what comes next.

“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 schoolboy, 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 lined,

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 saved, 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.”

Those words keep bouncing around in my head. It’s funny, isn’t it? How life has this way of looping back to the beginning, like one giant cosmic déjà vu. And here I am, standing at the start of another year, staring down the script of this next act, just hoping—praying—that maybe, just maybe, this one’s going to be better than the last