Then dreadful thoughts of death, of waves heaped on him.
And friends, and parting daylight, rush upon him.
He thinks of prayers to Neptune and his daughters.
And Venus, Hero's queen, sprung from the waters;
And then of Hero only,—how she fares.
And what she'll feel, when the blank morn appears;
And at that thought he stiffens once again.
His limbs, and pants, and strains, and climbs,—in vain.
Fierce draughts he swallows of the wilful wave.
Men at some time are masters of their fates: The fault, dear Brutus, is not
in our stars, But in ourselves, that we are underlings.
Even as the little vessel shoves from shore,
Backward, still backward, so he thence withdrew;
And when he wholly felt himself afloat,
There where his breast had been he turned his tail,
And that extended like an eel he moved,
And with his paws drew to himself the air.
A greater fear I do not think there was.
They flee from me that sometime did me seek
With naked foot stalking in my chamber. I have seen them gentle tame
That now are wild and do not remember
That sometime they put themselves in danger
To take bread at my hand;
and now they range
Busily seeking with a continual change.
What you think, you become. What you feel, you attract. What you imagine,
The person to blame is sitting right across from you. It’s the only person.
Not parents, not society, not pornography. I mean, those are just excuses.
When I was a little boy there was a small, rectangular painting on the wall
next to my parents bedroom: a painting of a shark, and we all simply called
it "The Shark", or "Hajen" in swedish. Somehow, within the family it gained
somewhat of a cult status. We all loved the way the light traveled through
the surface of the water, the detail of the animal and the angle from where
it was painted. For others it was merely just a painting, but for us... it
was an artwork of pride: being my father's painting.