What is being sociable?
Society is an interesting phenomenon; it ‘self’-regulates.
Being sociable sounds like a nice thing, doesn’t it? It’s being friendly, getting on with other one another, fitting in to the way of things … we are part of the rules, ranks and status … we become a drop in the social ocean … society tells us what to do and say … we don’t make waves … we feel guilty or out of place if we don’t conform to collective thinking.
This is self regulating programme or meme that imitates an element of a culture or system of behaviour passed from one individual to another by imitation, or other non-genetic means.
Society is so well-oiled that it self-encapsulates, and limits and imprisons our ability to realise what we actually are. People are actually saying, “Stop asking questions and be like us”.
When was the last time you heard someone say something original? Our life is so much more than playing games and reading others’ news. News? What news? News is reprogramming our collective mind, one way or another, while society maintains the confusion about our reality.
Once we realise this affair, we then have a choice; either to be a player or just be the audience. We recognise that the world is, indeed, a stage and we no longer have to perform.
All the world’s a stage, And all the men and women merely players; They have their exits and their entrances, And one man in his time plays many parts, His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant, Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms. Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel And shining morning face, creeping like snail Unwillingly to school. And then the lover, Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad Made to his mistress’ eyebrow. Then a soldier, Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard, Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel, Seeking the bubble reputation Even in the cannon’s mouth. And then the justice, In fair round belly with good capon lined, With eyes severe and beard of formal cut, Full of wise saws and modern instances; And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts Into the lean and slippered pantaloon, With spectacles on nose and pouch on side; His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice, Turning again toward childish treble, pipes And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all, That ends this strange eventful history, Is second childishness and mere oblivion, Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.