My Last Thoughts On Virginia Woolf
I sit by my window, and my hand trembles as I attempt to write in my journal; my last journal page, but I cannot help but look out of this window and see the colors of the evening sky, the orange and gold mixed with blue, soon to be covered with a gauze of blackened hue.
Shades will be drawn across this scene, and bombs will be dropped, and burst, filtering a dim light through this darkness, but for now my beautiful fields are there before me. The grass blades wave to and fro; moods are contemplative, complicated and complete, a moment in time within, and without, searching the sun, the moon, the sky, and the seas, all faces of humankind; found, lost, searching for love, though I have ridiculed, articulating my rule.
My demise, I see in my own eyes. I see reflections on this old shiny surface. I see into the whys and the wherefores. I see into the words of friends and foes alike; the works of a million years, to be criticized, and delved, and probed, and shelved. My own worst enemy I see now.
I think about my life, as it was then, as it is now; I feel the ages of time through these tremors of mine, through these headaches and pains, and my age is a haunting reminder, all inclusive years both wanted, wanting, and unwanted, bombing me with nerves that halt and spin my mind; time spent with voices that reached out to me, yet holding me down in recline, in darkness, in moods and depths not even the written word can describe. What does it mean, to be ill? Can anyone explain these feelings? The shades are drawn; darkness falls, as night must, it is happening.....Dawn ascends...
Damn you! Leave me, oh life, oh leave me! You are cumbersome, you are inhibiting, you are prohibiting forward motion, damn you! I have loved you, I have hated you. Night and Day, my worst critic, leave me!
