Oh, and about Shakespeare not writing his own plays... It's not proven (and I can't see how it would become so), but it's a conspiracy theory that I've grown rather attached to.
There's a beat that marks each moment, each second, each heartbeat of my life. It drives me and controls me and contains me within a life I almost—almost—want out of. I'd never do anything as drastic as suicide, but I can't say I haven't flirted with the possibility.
It's a very romantic, flamboyant, almost Shakespearean thing. I mean, really. If I've got to go, I might as well make something of it. At least let the papers get a good story, right? It's either a Romeo-and-Juliet style lover's suicide or some crazy skydiving accident and I must admit, the lover's suicide would probably hurt less than plummeting to the ground with a broken parachute and a dull thud when body meets land.
I always did love Shakespeare. Especially Hamlet and A Midsummer Night's Dream. Funnily enough, I never actually read Hamlet or A Midsummer Night's Dream, but I can quote Hamlet's soliloquy and Robin's goodbye speech from the end of Midsummer, so I suppose that's close enough.
You see, that's all my life is really made of. A white lie here, a half-truth there, knowing enough of a story so as not to arouse suspicion but not enough to really get what the hell Shakespeare meant by it all.
That's the way my life is. I have all the charming smile and bright eyes that just shimmer with intelligence but it's only enough to make you think I'm smarter than you, only enough to ace the test, not enough to hold a conversation with some geek in Mensa who has nothing better to do than poke at a calculator all day.
I've always told people that I'm not really all that smart, and it gratifies my pride when they tell me I really am and am I just being modest? That's all I really get when I complain, and it makes me feel better about my shit personality, so I complain all the time. People tell me I'm better than I think I am. I tell myself I think I'm better than I am.
It's a bit Shakespearean, actually. From what Shakespeare I know (and that would be "a rose by any other name" and "Et tu, Brute?") that's the exact type of story he'd tell. Of someone who's spent her whole life fooling herself into acting like she's more than the sum of her parts.
Of course, a Shakespearean tragedy would end with everyone dying except Benvolio and Octavius, but a story's a story and mine's all I've got. So maybe it's not exactly Shakespearean. Close enough, right?
Close enough. That's my motto. Unfortunately, there's nothing "close enough" about crashing and burning off the edge of a cliff or an airplane in a strange yet beautiful leap. Close enough only works in horseshoes and hand grenades, and I'm beginning to think my life is made of both.
Horseshoes because I need all the luck I can get and hand grenades because something's about to explode. Whether it's my life or that damn Macbeth, I won't know till I get there.
You know something funny about old Willy? They say he might not have written his stories after all. They say some duke of someplace or other in Elizabethan England picked his name and wrote a bunch of plays. Lucky jerk. You have a name and someone chooses it and they make you famous without your lifting a finger. I wonder if he even knew that his name was being used to make a bajillion plays.
Of course, that's the way my life is, isn't it? A lot of things I never really pulled off and people hear my name for it. I imagine it's rather Shakespearean, very flamboyant and romantic, and just under the surface, just beyond the line of vision…
It's not half as real as you thought it was.