My eyes snap open. I’m backstage, but something’s off. The curtains are a deep velvet, not the cheap, thinner kind that I’d grown accustomed to.

The backstage is filled with staff shuffling around nervously; I don’t recognize any one of them. Among the crowd, one man approaches me, clipboard in hand. “Mr. Blake, are you ready to go on?”

“Mr. Blake?” I think to myself. “He couldn’t possibly mean the great philosopher, Sir Ernest Blake, could he?” I nodded instinctively. “Okay, you’re up!” And with that I am escorted to the front stage.

“How did I get caught up in this?” I thought. “I’m fine with speaking to a live audience, but I’m a comedian, not some philosopher with a Master’s!”

As I leave the darkness backstage, I become blinded by the bright lights on the outside. Every eye fixates on me as I make my way to the microphone. I swallow hard, and begin to speak.

“Y’know, life’s like a bucket of snails.”

Utter silence. I continue.

“You never quite know what you’re going to get. Some snails come in large, round shells, and others little spiral shells.”

I catch several inquisitive looks. “Where is he going with this?” Even I can’t tell.

“We’re all our own snails with our own shells. No two shells are the same. People come from all walks of life, with experiences and traits that are unlike anyone before them.”

“Most importantly, when the snail dies, its shell is left behind. It may be used by others for protection, decoration, or some other purpose.”

“Likewise, when we die, we leave our own ‘shells’ behind. What mark will we leave for the world? One of beauty? Love? Knowledge? No matter how large or small, this mark will will impact someone, somewhere!”

I pause briefly. “How should I end this?” I wonder.

“I want to challenge you all to look for your ‘shell’. What makes you unique? How can you share that with generations to come? If we can all find our shells, we can all work together to build a world that the future can be proud of. Thanks.”

The crowd is silent for a moment. They must’ve expected something longer. Suddenly, they erupt into a grand applause. I stride backstage, my confidence swelling with each step.

The man with the clipboard greets me. He looks shocked, but not unpleasantly so. “That certainly was…off script, Mr. Blake! Where did all that come from?”

I grin at him with a mischievous squint. “I’m not sure. I just feel like a completely different person today!”