Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,To the last syllable of recorded time;And all our yesterdays have lighted foolsThe way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player,That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,And then is heard no more. It is a taleTold by an idiot, full of sound and fury,Signifying nothing.(Macbeth)
It seemed there were more sounds in the streets than usual. Dogs barking, a Greek chorus of shouting. Sirens alarming with alarming frequency.
And the windows were suddenly full of people, formerly invisible. An old woman leaning a fleshy arm against the sill and, framed below her, a boy peering out into nothingness.
(Inside now, their gazes turn and shift and extend outward for connection.)
Anne wished to retreat retreat retreat (!) until she was a small spec in that nothingness, smaller still. To escape the noise, the ever oppressive noise that grew louder and louder regardless of all her paddling, her panting breath above the tide.
“One day you will be a buoyant ghost,” he said.
She would be a ghost, unable to let go of the guilt and worry she seemed to inflict. Not buoyant but ever fettered.
Anne wondered, why must this oppressive pressure for movement come when things were meant to be paused, still? The loud loud noise that further drowned out her voice yet somehow made her more visible, more vulnerable, more exposed.
It was infuriating.
She hated it.
The fleshy arm turned out the light, obscuring the transmission of her broadcast.
Anne had made a stranger laugh that day. It was a beautiful, small thing to hold onto, like the sliver of sky visible above a stale building.
She considered, disease nor self can be fled. And it was all sound and fury, signifying nothing.
Anne squared her slight shoulders and braced against the tide.