A play.
One play but myriad stories. Each story with thumping payoffs. For each payoff another plot twist.
An actor.
One actor but umpteen roles. For each role very much indeed masks.
And we are still wondering...
Why do we find it so impossible telling people apart? Why is it so difficult to contradistinguish the good ones from the bad ones? Why do we always stumble over falsehood then fall into the foolish abyss of mistrust? And the most ridiculous matter... we let ourselves be trapped in deception again and over and over.
And I am still wondering...
Is it because we are silly or is it because we are blind?
Either of these reasons would be better than the truth.
We aren't stupid or silly.
We aren't blind or deaf.
We are people.
And people believe.
And that is the problem with us. We can make every lie become a fact only by rubbing it in our minds.
Our whole deliberate existence is an illusion without the ability to find the insight.
We are all held hostage on that stage, in this theatre.
Then again,
A play.
A bunch of actors.
Countless stories.
Welcome to the theatre called Life.
E. Hastings
