My Own Mind Is My Battlefield: in loving memory

29.11.07

in loving memory

something is wrong with me...and I know why for once. on Saturday November 24, 2007 my aunt died. she was in Texas while I live in Washington. I haven't seen her for about a year. a little less then a year ago her house went up in flames and she barely made it out. she never really recovered. she was my mother's sister and I was very close to her, I can't even speak to my mom without crying. I'm crying now. she was the only family member that I could trust that I've every really believed in. when I was younger and my mom and dad would fight she was there to comfort me, to tell me that adults were crazy sometimes even though I sort of understood. I'm heartbroken that I didn't get to see her, that I never will again. I didn't get to make to the funeral either, there was just no way. I can't help but cry and feel upset, I can't really sleep that well at night since they told me. I'm a mess. I can't concentrate on anything that I should be like work, I can't read because she loved reading so much...i break down so much and so often, I don't think a day has gone by that I haven't cried or felt like crap since they told me. they made sure they got in contact with me that day. I know that she's not suffering now and I'm happy for that, I'm happy that I can believe that she's in heaven...for I do believe in heaven and in God, it may not be your belief but it's mine. it keeps me sane thinking she's not truly gone from me that I will see her again when I eventually die myself.

it is strange how they always say passed away...she's dead, she's not just gone through some phase or something. I don't know it just seems odd to me how they tried to lighten the blow by using what they consider softer words. maybe that's the only way they could take to hear it though even from their own mouths.

i miss her so much, I wish I could have been there to see her one last time. I will forever keep her in my heart for she is bound to my soul as a friend and as family.

I love you Aunt Charlene with all my heart even though you are gone I will forever remember you.

A Midsummer Night's Dream

If we shadows have offended,
Think but this, and all is mended,
That you have but slumber'd here
While these visions did appear.
And this weak and idle theme,
No more yielding but a dream,
Gentles, do not reprehend:
if you pardon, we will mend:
And, as I am an honest Puck,
If we have unearned luck
Now to 'scape the serpent's tongue,
We will make amends ere long;
Else the Puck a liar call;
So, good night unto you all.
Give me your hands, if we be friends,
And Robin shall restore amends.

-Robin Goodfellow, A Puck
from A Midsummer Night's Dream
by William Shakespeare

Invictus

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

- William Ernest Henley

A Dream Within A Dream

Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow-
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand-
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep- while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?

by Edgar Allen Poe

Mansfield Park

If any one faculty of our nature may be called more wonderful than the rest, I do think it is memory. There seems something more speakingly incomprehensible in the powers, the failures, the inequalities of memory, than in any other of our intelligences. The memory is sometimes so retentive, so serviceable, so obedient; at others, so bewildered and so weak; and at others again, so tyrannic, so beyond control! We are, to be sure, a miracle every way; but our powers of recollecting and of forgetting do seem peculiarly past finding out.

by Jane Austen

V for Vendetta

Voilà! In view, a humble vaudevillian veteran, cast vicariously as both victim and villain by the vicissitudes of Fate. This visage, no mere veneer of vanity, is a vestige of the vox populi, now vacant, vanished. However, this valorous visitation of a by-gone vexation, stands vivified and has vowed to vanquish these venal and virulent vermin van-guarding vice and vouchsafing the violently vicious and voracious violation of volition. The only verdict is vengeance; a vendetta, held as a votive, not in vain, for the value and veracity of such shall one day vindicate the vigilant and the virtuous. Verily, this vichyssoise of verbiage veers most verbose, so let me simply add that it's my very good honor to meet you and you may call me V.

-Hugo Weaving as V
from V for Vendetta
by David Lloyd

Alone

From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were — I have not seen
As others saw — I could not bring
My passions from a common spring —
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow — I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone —
And all I lov'd — I lov'd alone —
Then — in my childhood — in the dawn
Of a most stormy life — was drawn
From ev'ry depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still —
From the torrent, or the fountain —
From the red cliff of the mountain —
From the sun that 'round me roll'd
In its autumn tint of gold —
From the lightning in the sky
As it pass'd me flying by —
From the thunder, and the storm —
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view —

by Edgar Allen Poe

The Tiger

Tiger Tiger. burning bright,
In the forests of the night;
What immortal hand or eye.
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies.
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand, dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder, & what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat.
What dread hand? & what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain,
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp.
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears
And watered heaven with their tears:
Did he smile His work to see?
Did he who made the lamb make thee?

Tiger Tiger burning bright,
In the forests of the night:
What immortal hand or eye,
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

by William Blake