o 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.

Every so often I think about it and I shudder. It’s a feeling that haunts me. I don’t like to talk about it. I just shrug it off and try to forget as soon as I remember. I soldier on. What else can you do? I wake up each morning and tell myself I can’t go on, that I must go on. So I go on.

And yet sometimes I embrace it. I look down into it and realize that it has to be, this ending, this finality. At these times there are few things that I can do besides want to hide myself from others, so that they can’t see the utter terror on my face and the heaviness in my heart. It’s a feeling we all have and few want to share. And even fewer share in constructive ways that make others feel better about the situation. These few are wise men (and women). And their words sometimes bring me solace.

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.

And I guess my greatest worry is that sometimes that I’ll never be able to capture the same sorts of feelings and emotions in my writing. To ever bring to the fore the real issues behind certain pieces of music, whether the artist intended it or not. There are flashes and glimmers every once in a while, I feel. But for the most part it lies flat on the page, leaving impassive readers to their impassive reactions. Even my most accomplished writing, dancing upon the page, leaves me—in those desolate moments—feeling weak and worthless at getting the point across.

And even the writers that I most admire sometimes have these feelings. They just hide them better. Wild men, gonzo journalism, concepts rising above their imposed structures to say something more—there are moments of doubt everywhere to be found if you can look hard enough and care to engage with a writer’s entire oeuvre. But usually you don’t. You read the highlights. And the lowlights. And draw your conclusions from there.

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.

Which is why I don’t fear the present. And I don’t fear the past.

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.

And it’s why I choose to engage with moments. Perfect moments. Moments that confirm life. Moments that make me smile as I head to an office after a few hours sleep, after working on what I really believe in. Only insincerity would make you believe otherwise. And it’s in these moments, moments that send OTHER shivers down your spine, moments that destroy the monotony of everyday life with their blinding light and humanity and goodness and utter rightness that I can’t believe that they exist. Juno’s “The French Letter” has one of these moments.