Waiting And Waiting For Godot
VLADIMIR: You should have been a poet.
ESTRAGON: I was. (Gestures towards his rags.) Isn’t that obvious.
—Samuel Beckett (1906–1989), Irish playwright, novelist, and poet. Waiting for Godot.
Life is obvious even to the oblivious masses. It would really help with some of the life wallowing or swimming to keep it from drowning if you’re a reborn Jehovah. Talking about life itself make her (Yes, Jehovah is a feminine) omniscient of the subtle subject or perhaps taking shelter on her own word of comfort. Honestly, are she that forlorn to be suddenly reminiscing of buoyant and sinking emotion and past exploit. Bargain the past for a favour of prospective future?
The roses thorn prick her to others’ reality, but she mend it too fast to feel the anguish of others. She bathe in roses scent to cover the reeking fug, insensate to pejorative actuality. Roses stalk both hold the bud of a rubicund beauty and the thorny affair in the stark contrast of it’s distinct composition.
A loaf is life to the refugee of the warring nation. A leaf is life to the smallest creation that feed upon them. The colour — we are — that painted her life is a mere existence. We exist only to feed her faith that life is a rosy affair, and we are the thorny insignificant being. Loaf, leaf and life, the Jehovah feed upon them. But then loaf and leaf is negligible things.
VLADIMIR: Well, shall we go?
ESTRAGON: Yes, let’s go.
They do not move.
—Samuel Beckett (1906–1989), Irish playwright, novelist, and poet.
The final words of the play. Waiting for Godot.
I’m not going to wait for Godot. I reap it now because there’s no hope for the future. At least, to me.
Try be happy without these thorns for a change, but there’s always another thorn, pesticide, herbicide or infanticide — which is great for infantile inhabitants among her bed of roses. No more worries about us yapping. Oh, and please refrain from stepping on the poo.
Genieße das Leben ständig!
Du bist länger tot als lebendig!