The Agony of Analysis

For the entirety of the following essay, the following nomenclature is adopted throughout:

·   “the Writer” is the one who analyzes; the reader of the original text;

·   “the Author” is the one who has written the original text;

and

·   “the Scholars” or “the Critics” are the ones that have written previous analysis which the Writer uses to find information.

The Agony of the Analysis

"I celebrate & sing myself"

“I celebrate & sing myself”

(a poem inspired by Walt Whitman)

I sing myself in words that fill my life

                Words that share myself with yours

                              that share my heart with yours

                              that share my eyes with your imaginings

But I am ever blind, then see—

                again, again I learn again

                stories

                (and dreams)

                of who I am again.

Somedays I am the scholar, with unquenching thirst for knowledge and numbers

                (blind to feelings or practicality)

Somedays I am the homemaker, with aromas (paprika and pinesol)

                pervasive along with ordered chaos

Yet other days I am the sloth, with chocolate, popcorn, and tactile-glee

                (blind by shutting out the daily pressures on myself)

But most of all, on most of days

                I’m merely just the rolling tide of

                emotion, feeling, empathy, misery

                that I embrace with emerald pools for eyes.

                I share myself with you and take your share of you

                because only in our life together

                (with God & nature and water & things)

                does life mean anything in song

                               

Elizabeth Gay

1.11.2012

910am

"At Three O'Clock in the Morning" edit

"At Three O'Clock in the Morning"
editted 4 Feb 2012 

"At Three O'Clock in the Morning"

"At Three O'Clock in the Morning"




She lay awake in her bed because she couldn't sleep. It was one of those restless nights that are filled with the inescapable dread that another minute has to creep by before you can sleep. And another. And another. And another. And another. And another.


But the moment of sweet ecstasy, as you slip soundlessly into the silos and slaughterhouses of slumber, NEVER comes.