CW: suicidal ideation

HAMLET         For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,

Th’oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely,

The pangs of despised love, the law’s delay,

The insolence of office and the spurns

That patient merit of th’unworthy takes,

When he himself might his quietus make

With a bare bodkin.   (3.1.69-75)

A catalogue of slights, wounds, scars, and deep aches: for who would bear the whips and scorns of time—who’d just put up with it all, everything that life throws at you, us, me—the casual blows, the things that sting and smart and smart (words, above all?), th’oppressor’s wrong, all the sheer bloody unfairness, not getting what you’re entitled to, being denied agency, and the proud man’s contumely, the sneering arrogance and insults—and these two might be more particularly related to Claudius, although Hamlet’s gone far deeper already than his current situation. And what about the pangs of despised love?—how much it just bloody hurts and aches and ACHES, loving someone who doesn’t love you back or love you anymore—and the law’s delay, everyone complains about that, don’t they, bit safer than the agonies of rejection, bitching about solicitors? A bit lighter, for half a line. Then there’s the insolence of office and the spurns that patient merit of th’unworthy takes, being ordered around high-handedly, no one ever saying thank you for a job well done, just blow after blow after blow. What makes it worse: most of it unintentional, not even meant, just casual, just the way that things are. No one cares, no one even notices. This endless, exhausting slog, of quiet desperation. Who would even bother, when he himself might his quietus make with a bare bodkin? I mean, he—you, we, I—could just end it all, any time, settle the account, draw a line under everything, with the smallest of daggers, a little pin (compare Richard II, 3.2.169). Period, full stop, done. Death, here is thy sting, and it would be so, so easy.