blah
i have been in one hell of a mood lately. glum, downcast, pathetic, and woeful are a few of the words that would describe me the last few days. i can't seem to snap out of it. i know part, well, probably most of it is due to these raging hormones inside me, and i don't know if that makes me feel better or worse. it should make me feel better that there really isn't anything i can do about it and it isn't necessarily me or a place into which i've put myself; on the other hand, it should make me feel worse that i cannot do anything about it rather than suffer its slings and arrows. at least, i get this odd satisfaction from merely feeling pain from time to time; it reminds me that i am human, and alive, and both are very good things to be reminded of from time to time. on the bright side, my husband has been an absolute dear through all this. in fact, he's just been great for quite some time now. we have really found our happy place, as it were, and are really enjoying each other (and soren!) these days.
my kind mother is keeping soren tonight and i came home very excited to catch up on some scrapbooking--well, it's half past ten now and i haven't done anything. not anything seemingly of value, anyway. i bought a bottle of wine (yes, it was one of those days), though i only had one glass, okay, one and a half; i came home and ate pizza and watched tv with my husband; i cleaned the kitchen; and i did some work on the internet. now i'm trying to decide if i should go to sleep (because i am tired, after all) or if i should stay up (since i can sleep in tomorrow). hmm...
so not that i'm thinking of offing myself or anything, but hamlet's soliloquy touches on a lot of what's swirling around inside me, and anyway it's beautifully put:
To be, or not to be--that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles
And by opposing end them. To die, to sleep--
No more--and by a sleep to say we end
The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to. 'Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep--
To sleep--perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub,
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause. There's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
Th' oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of th' unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprise of great pitch and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry
And lose the name of action.
my kind mother is keeping soren tonight and i came home very excited to catch up on some scrapbooking--well, it's half past ten now and i haven't done anything. not anything seemingly of value, anyway. i bought a bottle of wine (yes, it was one of those days), though i only had one glass, okay, one and a half; i came home and ate pizza and watched tv with my husband; i cleaned the kitchen; and i did some work on the internet. now i'm trying to decide if i should go to sleep (because i am tired, after all) or if i should stay up (since i can sleep in tomorrow). hmm...
so not that i'm thinking of offing myself or anything, but hamlet's soliloquy touches on a lot of what's swirling around inside me, and anyway it's beautifully put:
To be, or not to be--that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles
And by opposing end them. To die, to sleep--
No more--and by a sleep to say we end
The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to. 'Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep--
To sleep--perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub,
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause. There's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
Th' oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of th' unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprise of great pitch and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry
And lose the name of action.
