Do not go gently.

imageimageA kind follower on my FB page commented that I’d endured my illness with dignity.
I was very flattered but actually, I haven’t.
I’ve raged and cursed and cried my way way through the last two years. I’ve sworn at strangers who have made idiotic comments about my wheelchair in public. I was incensed that they thought I needed reminding I stand out from the ordinary. As I have said in previous blog posts I would love to be invisible. I’m, at heart, a shy and private person and I hate having attention drawn to me.
I’m just plain stubborn when push comes to shove, so when my hands wouldn’t hold my huge SLR camera I’d loved using for years, and my arms were too weak to lift it, so eventually I started using a semi pro compact.
It’s my main camera now, and I’ve adapted. I still find looking at other pro photographers pictures of Dartmoor hard. It’s just too painful to see through others eyes, what I currently, can’t. But I can see my beloved moor from the car, And I know I’m so lucky to be able to do that.
I really don’t know what the future holds, except with slightly gallows humour I’m lucky enough to say I’ll still be alive, many as ill as me with fatal conditions won’t be.
The poem below encapsulates my frustration and my anguish and my hope all in one.
I often wonder if British literature would have evolved differently had it not been written.
But that’s another topic……for all those raging, whatever against, I salute you.

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.

Dylan Thomas.

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