"Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you, trippingly on the tongue. But if you mouth it, as many of our players do, I had as lief the town crier spoke my lines. Nor do not saw the air too much with your hand, thus, by use all gently, for in the very torrent, tempest, and whirlwind of your passion, you must acquire and beget a temperance that may give it smoothness. Be not too tame neither, but let your own discretion be your tutor. Suit the action to the word, the word to the action, with this special observance, that you o'erstep not the modesty of nature. For anything so overdone is from the purpose of playing, whose end, both at the first and now, was and is, to hold, as 'twere, the mirror up to nature, to show virtue her own feature, scorn her own image, and the very age and body of the time his form and pressure."
In other words, balance you say?
What a world to balance in, between work and home and loved ones and finally, your passion. To dance? To sing? To sew? To write? To speak? To dream?
And to pay the rent?
I often think that sometimes it would have been nice to live in the era of Jane Eyre or Emma Woodhouse. They have their box to live in, which limits their choices for better or for worse. But in this world your box is what you make it, which is difficult when you can never see the edges of the box to begin with until they hit you in the nose.
But, alas, I must leave you again for another day. To dance for this evening is my choice, and dance I must. Dance dance dance! To sew is tomorrow, and tomorrow is to sew. For another day will pass before I pay the rent, and to pay the rent, it is to dream.
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