The Disintegration of the Persistence of Hamlet

“Hamlet?”

On top of vast expanses, I stand. The world sprawled before me. The sky translucent above, and the smell of salt thrown into the air by the ocean below. Here, I stand. I can see out to the horizon and beyond in every direction, and I feel a sense of mastery. A sense that everything is within reach, that I can grasp at anything I see, wrap my fingers around it and name it as my own. I chase the sun with my eyes as it slowly sinks beneath the ocean, burning the sky its descent touches, and the sky is left singed a painful red-orange. I do not reach for the sun; I do not want to be burned. But I am pleased to think that, if I was more reckless, I could grasp the sun, turn it and search it as I please. But I am not Icarus. I leave the sun be and it does me the same respect. But the sky is not so lucky and its burnt shades of red set the world ablaze. Everything is tinted shades of fire, lighted by the burning light, burning out.