No one auditions for the parts they play in life; the various roles we assume at each stage are typically unglamorous, and our appearances altogether fleeting. The dialog is third-rate, the action hackneyed and laborious, and our entrances and exits so often lack the proper timing. The theater is condemned and the seats sparsely filled. There are cracks in the ceiling and rats scurrying down the aisles, their bellies full of skittles and little bits of popcorn. The whole play seems to have sprung from the warped mind of a criminally insane asylum inmate whose pathological lack of concern for the well-being of their characters is matched only by the casual disinterest and bewildering inattentiveness of the audience. Every performance is simultaneously debut and final act. There are no rehearsals.
Yet great rewards await those lucky enough to have been paying attention since the beginning, especially if one is in the habit of reading between the lines. And although probably we will never begin to understand why we've ended up in the particular parts seemingly cast for us across the warp of existence (it would seem that the realization that "we" might easily have ended up in different ones lies near the root of ethics), the kind of understanding which constitutes those rewards - the fruits that hang from tree of knowledge - are notably convergent and frequently worth the price of admission.
