I live in Hamlet. Not in ‘a hamlet’ but actually inside the Danish prince. I am his consciousness, the small voice that tells him what to do and what not. I am his interior monologue. His unspoken desire. The thing that makes him tick. And I’m fed up with people judging me for the past 400 years. So let me set the record straight.
I am not a coward. I am not afraid of an undiscovered country nor to shuffle of this mortal coil. Reports about my ineptitude to decide have been largely exaggerated. Was it not I who nudged the prince to off Rozencrantz and Guildenstern? The one that killed that fool of a Polonius and asked an acting troupe to catch the conscience of the king in their play? The soft whisper in his ear that in the end drenched the Danish court in blood? And yes, I also told Hamlet to nail Ophelia, then dump her, then cast her aside.
Those are the facts. So I don’t get why people write me off as a whining wimp. Why not call me even-handed? Why not laud that I weigh both sides of the argument before making informed decisions? Cause make no mistake: I decide. I am a go-getter. A man of action.
I live in Hamlet. And I am.
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