How like a corpse she looks in the dying of the light

There are times when I rage.

I rage against time, money, love, happiness, my child, the cat, the douche who almost ran me over with his monster truck, people who talk to me when I am clearly ON THE TELEPHONE, jujubes & jellybeans (ew!), gum on the bottom of my shoe, puppies & kittens, babies (yeah, I said it), world hunger, illiteracy, semi-literacy, and 'the machine.' I rage against bad grammar, bad manners, bad lovers, bad liars & bad livers. And I rage against the world, my life, my mind, and as Dylan Thomas wrote, 'against the dying of the light."

Sometimes I rage against nothing in particular. The most uncontrollable, irrational rage you can imagine. The kind of rage that makes me want to smash things and bite people's faces off. And laugh. And spit in their earholes. And vomit on them. And kick them in the back. And loose red ants upon them. And pluck out every one of the rotting hairs on their bodies one at a time. And ...

All because they cut me off with their grocery cart or squeezed the toothpaste tube from the top instead of the bottom.

The truth is I rage against everything. And most of the time it is in check. But there are those times my rage is as dark & red & cold & bright as 'the dying of the light.

Today was one of those times.

...


Thankfully, I began writing this just before the sun set.

And what a beautiful sunset it was! It helped lift my spirits tremendously.

Thank goodness it didn't literally take my breath away. Otherwise ...

I think I'll make a pretty corpse

 ...

You may already know this one.

Do not go gentle into that good night
Dylan Thomas

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

...