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 have forked no lightening, 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.
For all of us the revelation of secrets and lies made the world seem less and less solid. It was as though the very ground we walked upon could become thin ice at any moment. We would fall through, screaming and crying until we hit rock bottom, forced to confront another ugly truth about ourselves and struggled to find the answer to the haunting questions: "Who am I? Who am I supposed to be?"
After it's all over, the early childhood, a chain of birthdays woven with candlelight, piles of presents, voices of relatives singing and praising your promise and future, after the years of schooling, fitting yourself into different size desks, memorizing, reciting and reporting and performing for jury after jury of teachers, counselors, and administrators, you still feel inadequate, alone, vulnerable and naked in a world that can be so unforgiving and terribly demanding.
Sometimes you cling to your family like some shipwrecked passenger clutching a lifesaver, but when you look into their eyes, you see their impatience and their expectation. You hear what they are thinking: "You should be swimming on your own by now. You'll only drag us down if you don't."
If your'e lucky, really lucky, you find someone to love, who will in turn love you and the loneliness and fear is greatly reduced. Often, it seems from what we've all experienced, you can make the wrong choice and just when you thought it was safe enough to let go of that lifesaver, you're tossing and turning and on the verge of drowning again.
But what if you've never really had a loving family? What if all your birthdays were treated as minor inconviences and all your presents were grudgeingly shoved your way? What if all your candles were snuffed too quickly and whenver you reached for that lifesaver, you were tossed a deflated rube and left to struggle on your own?,br>
And what if after you had come through the darkness and finally looked for the light and for hope and promise, you found only a prism of lies, twisting and turning, making you dizzy and sending you spinning into a whirlpool of memories, you now knew were all illusions? into what stream, what pool, would you dip your hands to wash your face in smiles? Where would you go to hear the melody of laughter? What place in yourself would you reach into to draw out some happy moment to share even if you did find someone with who you could share?
How would you know the difference between yourself and your shadow? Would anyone blame you for stopping and asking everyone, every acquaintance, every stranger the same questions: "Do you know who I am? Do you know where I can go to find that out?"
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