Of Shakespearean Proportions.

I feel like Ophelia. As in Shakespeare's Ophelia. A character one might call weak... but I would call beautiful. Ophelia's dilema (good lord, that sounds like the title of a bad english class essay!), everything she went through, was for one thing and one thing only: love. Love from her father Polonius, love from her lover, Hamlet (jr.), even a lighter sort of love, a love akin to approval of her nobility and social acceptance. Without a doubt Ophelia had reason to go insane (oops, spoiler alert... more Hamlet spoilers ahead) whether it be the result of her obligations to her father, her love for Hamlet (whom she discovers is "mad"), to eventually the death of her father, slain by her then former lover.

**That little explanation was awful, so if you are actually interested in reading the play or doing any writing referring to Ophelia, please look into a proper synopsis.

I can't help but feel her shows of strength, few and far between that they were, showed a very deep and interesting aspect to her character. I believe there was a very small piece of Ophelia that believed she was strong enough to face it all... but in the end her reliance upon social approval and the love of the people closest to her proved to be her undoing. I am not suggesting that one should not love their relatives, friends, or lovers (key word there being "love", duh.), I am simply stating that all of us, even the most hopeless of romantics (a group to which I acquaint myself) succumb to the overwhelmingly devastating bitch called reality. The farther you drift into the clouds, the harsher the landing.

I feel as if I am in a bubble, drifting along the currents. Never really rising all that high, but never quite touching back down. It bursts when it is at its highest, when the fall will be the most shattering. Fear not (those who actually read or care), I will not be throwing myself melodramatically into a lake and drowning anytime soon. My problems are nothing. I look at my friends and all they have to deal with, and I feel bad for allowing myself even a second of self-pity. I add wind to my sails through their happiness and move on, optimistic once more (was the sail metaphour counter-productive to the bubble simile?).

Speaking of my last bracketed comment, who, other than me, reads the word "simile" too fast and instead gets "smile"? I supposed that's why I attribute the stylistic device as being a happy one, much unlike the gothic/emo poetry it so frequently peppers... which once again brings me back to master Shakespeare, in all his twisted, foul and fair glory. Everything he writes is an example of that (all of his plays, that is). From the fair Ophelia dying a foul deal, to the foul Lady Macbeth wearing her 'fair' face. Most instructors will tell you in order to appretiate Shakespeare's writing properly, you must first understand them. I am inclined to disagree. To grasp a deeper meaning, perhaps. But to simply appretiate, stand back and state quite simply that: "Hey, that's damn pretty" is a skill in itself. Analyzing may help you to understand, but it sure doesn't help you to enjoy (again, jus my B.S. opinion).

That was Shakespeare's real gift. Most of his audiences were not educated, or at least not on the same revolutionary level of thinking as he was. To be able to paint imagery and tell stories well enough so that anyone can sit back and enjoy them is a beautiful thing, much like the underappreciated Ophelia.

Ps: Favorite Shakespearean quote? "The time and my intents are savage-wild, more intense and inexorable far than empty tigers or the roaring sea." From Romeo and Juliet. I can't find the Act, Scene or line numbers because there doesn't seem to be any good websites for that anymore. Sigh.

This has been... nice. Hopefully I'll write again soon.

Chloe.