As the words of Dido float so gracefully from her, so too does life flee. She laments to be remembered for herself and not her fate. Sadly, humankind cannot afford her this, for the effects of our being and our being itself cannot often be separated. I am these words because they are the only remnants of my being which remain when I am laid in Earth. Sadness prevails in my case and in that of Dido, you see. We cannot be ourselves. No one can. Perception dictates that we are what we do, how we look, and where we go. What bitter agony… of course, the actions of one can be as true or as inspiring as the person who one is, but this type of positivity is still a mask, a visage. It is still false. Where is truth? Perhaps it is found in death, or perhaps in forgetfulness. I cannot say. It seems that Dido cannot either.
The end.
Dido and Aeneas. Act III. 10:13-16:00.
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