[GuruRatings] OK don't read this

[Guest guest]

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Pete S

Gururatings ; AdvaitaToZen ;

nisargadatta

Saturday, August 27, 2005 3:02 PM

[GuruRatings] OK don't read this

 

 

AC: I don't love you,

I don't like you,

 

Not separate, Not together.

 

You and me ...have NO relation!

 

Not joined, ... not apart,

You are ME ... in another form!

 

.....

 

P: Nice attention getter header AC.

Have you considered a carrier in

advertisement?

 

Anyway, I like being you. It's no

problem, I hardly notice you, I'm

anesthetized to you. Only when you

tug my sleeve by posting do I see

you... and then I pat your head, and

say, " Good boy. " And you go back to

sleep.

 

It's easy too, being all those

starving kids in Africa, and the Iraqis

and American soldiers being blown to

bits. It's easy being them, they only

appear in that dreamy eye called TV.

They flash briefly as an old guilt, or

a premonition, and then go back to sleep.

But, " Ah, there is the rub, " they are

only sleeping. One day they'll come home

to roost; one day there'll be help to pay!

 

Pete

 

 

Ah so, Pete,

 

" To be, or not to be: that is the question:

Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer

The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,

Or to take arms against a sea of trouble,

And by opposing end them. To die: to sleep;

No more; and by a sleep to say we end.

The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks

That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation

Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;

To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;

For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come,

When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,

Must give us pause: there's the respect

That makes calamity of so long life:

For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,

The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,

The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,

The insolence of office, and the spurns

That patient merit of the unworthy takes,

When he himself might his quietus make,

With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,

To grunt and sweat under a weary life,

But that the dread of something after death,

The undiscover'd country from which bourn

No traveller returns, puzzles the will,

And makes us rather bear those ills we have

Then fly to others that we know not of?

Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,

And thus the native hue of resolution

Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,

And enterprises of great pitch and moment

With this regard their currents turn awry

And lose the name of action. Soft you now! "

 

 

From Hamlet, Act III

Wm. Shakespeare