All the world’s a stage. Why we blog.

skating at Harbourfront in Toronto... my stage

Skating at Harbourfront in Toronto... my stage

I’m well aware that there is a large number of non-bloggers who think that those who do blog are a little nuts. Maybe they’re right. Likely they’re not. There is something fascinating about creating an online, real-time journal for the world to see. If anything, it’s ballsy, but not nuts.

But at some point  bloggers (and the nons) ask why do it?

When I was in high school I was introduced to a writer named Shakespeare. I fell in love. I’m not trying to sound fancy here. It’s the truth. Girl Scout’s honor.

The infamous “All the world’s a stage” monologue gave me goosebumps (did I mention that I love getting those!). It was as if someone had summed up what people do, what we crave, and wrote a poem about it. To me, the gist of that monologue is that we, all people, each and every day, perform. If all the world is indeed a stage, like Shakespeare writes, then this blog is a curtain call.

William Shakespeare – All the world’s a stage (from As You Like It 2/7)

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 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.


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