Rest in Peace, My Friend.
DEATH be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not so,
For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
And better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then;
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.
-John Donne
Ernest died last night. I had known that it was coming. He had been losing weight again, and we hadn't been able to manage his diabetes this last month. I just seemed that nothing really worked. I dont think that he was in any pain. He didn't seem to be. He crawled into bed last night and just sort of went to sleep while I stroked his fur.
He was a beautiful, graceful, and incredibly affectionate cat. I have been an emotional basketcase ever since it happened. I cried myself to sleep last night and have broke down a couple times today. It is so hard because he had this amazing ability to always know when I was upset. Whenever I would cry or be really stressed, he would find me. It was strange not to have that this time. It has been a really hard summer on me. I feel really tired and mentally and emotionally exhausted.
I have been reading a lot of poetry about death the last couple days. I always come back to Donne's "Death be not proud" sonnet. I have written about the poem several times and about its use in other texts. I love Margaret Edson's play _Wit_ and the way she uses the poem in the play. One of the things that I like about the poem is that I think that it is not only about considering death (and one's own death); it is, of course, also a poem about life...about transitioning from the thought of death...about moving on...about waking up after death....about the people who survive waking up again. It is a poem that I seem to turn to when I experience the death of someone else.
I dont know if that makes any sense. I cant really think or communicate anything effectively. It is just what I am thinking.
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not so,
For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
And better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then;
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.
-John Donne
Ernest died last night. I had known that it was coming. He had been losing weight again, and we hadn't been able to manage his diabetes this last month. I just seemed that nothing really worked. I dont think that he was in any pain. He didn't seem to be. He crawled into bed last night and just sort of went to sleep while I stroked his fur.
He was a beautiful, graceful, and incredibly affectionate cat. I have been an emotional basketcase ever since it happened. I cried myself to sleep last night and have broke down a couple times today. It is so hard because he had this amazing ability to always know when I was upset. Whenever I would cry or be really stressed, he would find me. It was strange not to have that this time. It has been a really hard summer on me. I feel really tired and mentally and emotionally exhausted.
I have been reading a lot of poetry about death the last couple days. I always come back to Donne's "Death be not proud" sonnet. I have written about the poem several times and about its use in other texts. I love Margaret Edson's play _Wit_ and the way she uses the poem in the play. One of the things that I like about the poem is that I think that it is not only about considering death (and one's own death); it is, of course, also a poem about life...about transitioning from the thought of death...about moving on...about waking up after death....about the people who survive waking up again. It is a poem that I seem to turn to when I experience the death of someone else.
I dont know if that makes any sense. I cant really think or communicate anything effectively. It is just what I am thinking.