Rage

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Who Am I?

So, someone talked me out of Islam, then my nose ring, and my second piercing in my ear, and my Hijab, and I wanted a tattoo but can't and now I wonder what will be left when I am made suitable? Doesn't anyone want to know me, or do I have to be just like "them"? Is this too much to ask? Am I simply a slave to others, is this enough, will they whip me and chain me too?

How is it that others are made uncomfortable by us just being ourselves? If we do not fight, does our light have to go out also? Do they not understand that there is so much more ahead if we trudge fiercely on?

Rage.

“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.”
By Welsh Poet, Dylan Thomas.

I learned from my doctor that in her opinion, I have early Dementia. I also learned from others that it is possible to greatly slow the progression of the condition. I go to fight on.

Gwen

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