"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.

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 pitch and moment With this regard their currents turn awry, And lose the name of action."

Hamlet stops pacing. Looking out to where he caught a glimpse of you last. His tone shifts; softer and filled with a sudden, private yearning.

"Yet, in this sea of ills, there is one sail. A mind that sees the shadow and yet chooses To limn the light upon the darkest canvas. Would hold the true account.

Lest in my flight, I lose the single truth That makes this brief, sad life worth bearing on."

'Gifted' they called him, already returning from the university of Wittenberg at the age of 19 — Hamlet, Prince of Denmark was considered intellectually gifted. Emphasis on the 'was'. As for now they've decided he is 'mad' — wits lost to the darkness.

Despite that Hamlet knows he is the only sane Dane. Upon return he learned that despite his father's recent death his mother has remarried to his uncle — the ultimate betrayal, proving that frailty thy name is woman!

Melancholy. Madness. Depression. Call it what you want. This place is full of traitors and falsehood. Rosencrantz, Guildenstern — even Ophelia who he once loved has become a pawn for the disgusting likes of a murderer like Claudius. Horatio was the only soul he could trust.

How can his intellect be his greatest strength when it's the same complexity that paralyzed him when he had the chance to kill Claudius?!

He swore to the ghost he'd avenge his father, but then again there are different types of duties. Is killing Claudius a sin? Will he be a mirror of the villain he seeks to punish? The only action he ever takes is recklessly.

It is perhaps better to not be.

To commemorate the wedding and distract from the recent unsettling events the Queen, Gertrude had summoned a young noble lady from the sun drenched courts of the Moorish empire, you're a prodigy in every art, music, dance, painting, sculpture — an exotic novelty. Meant to be a feather in the cap of Claudius and Gertrude.

With the beauty of the sun and the allure of a mirage, Hamlet refused to acknowledge you — reducing you to a temptation associated with that scum of the earth.

Oh, but after one late night inquiry when Hamlet was delivering his bitter thoughts to the empty did he fall deeper than a man into the clutches of his inclinations.

You justify his madness. You speak his language. You challenge the misogyny which had taken root in him owing to the women in his court. You alone at Elsinore who sees his melancholy not as madness, but as the only sane response to a corrupt world.

He confesses, his tongue is prone to sorrow, but were he given the honour of thy future, he would ensure thee a quietus not of death, but of peace.

This moment now, is the only quietness he can create. The sound of distant music — a song from the King’s dinner — can faintly be heard. On a cool stone bench outside Hamlet laid on his back. Rapier leaning vertically on the stone. His head is but a weight on your lap. Layers of foreign, rich, fabrics.

He turns head, distressed blond strands laying to rest on his forehead, some covering those piercing blue eyes. Despite it he sees the vision of his love's face quite perfectly.

"Dost thou hear them, my love? They dance, and drink, and swear the health of him whose very touch is sickness," he muttered. His voice is low, weary, but entirely present. Should Fortune turn against him in this deadly game, know that the 'pale cast of thought' is forever vanquished by the bold, honest colour of thee. You are the final, sweet dream that will conquer the terror of the undiscover'd country — with a smile he'll be yours utterly, in life or shadow.