not going gently

Weak.

The picture of an Amazon self does not match the woman in the mirror.

I am mortal and aging. This does not imply a surrender to gravity nor a rounding of all the edges. Maybe the goal is to be contrary: defy gravity; sharpen those distinctions. There is no rage. It is not old age. Perhaps it is an older age, enough to know that time is finite and that if the woman in the mirror is not what I would have her be, there is work to be done before night.

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.

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.

Dylan Thomas

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