To Be or Not to Be..

It’s rainy and cold out; not complaining though. People stride in and out of the buck for their favorite morning fix, and cups from yesterday for the .54 cent refill. This place is cool for folk that like to observe and sip on ground coffee beans, but what about the new comers who look up at the menu lost and beguiled at the array of combo’s the new age café has to offer. They twiddle their fingers nervously anticipating their turn in angst.


The words, tall grande or vista are replaced by the traditional small and large further revealing the naivety. The cashier corrects by using the café’s jargon or after failure, picks up the different cups for a visual look.

Funny, everything is a first for people at some point and time. It’s always interesting to observe; euphoric even. Taking back to a time when it was my first time. Most things cannot be recalled, depending on the relevance. The brain is funny that way. The hippocampus is selective at its memory selection. It chooses its sultries and buries the bitter and vice versa.

“To be or not to be: that is the question.” Shakespeare spoke. An eclectic warped soul but he did not lack insight in the imperative.

First timers make the world fresh and spectacular. From observation, I am inspired to reach back and snatch up the greenery. It is to be to flavorful and childlike.



Hamlet 3/1

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 troubles,

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 undiscovered country from whose bourn

No traveler returns, puzzles the will

And makes us rather bear those ills we have

Than 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 pith and moment

With this regard their currents turn awry,

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

The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons

Be all my sins remember'd.