I am writing this letter to you, to a shrouded unknowingness, a deep scar left upon my soul–that, which seems to have been an obscurity and the only reason for traveling through this maze of green walls. Before I ever realized it, I had become so engrossed and drawn to this enigma of the darkness. I am now arriving at the inner station. This has been a captivating and intriguing experience thus far, and to realize it is not yet over, utterly exhausts me. I have only eight miles to meet you, the gaping hole in my soul. The quietness of the green wall and motionlessness of the river is eerie, almost unsettling–the movement in the bushes became numb with an unnatural sleep. I am now sleeping this unnatural sleep as well; the air in my chest shortens and deepens, as if it were a foreboding omen lying ahead in the foggy darkness. Nearly two months I have been on this voyage, waiting, to meet you, a vague obscurity in my reality–I have seen more than I would like to see. This has turned into an atmosphere of death, death has followed life, it now awaits it, it peers at us, simply waiting, patiently. Like a snake waiting to strike, devour its prey, it waits for us. And like its prey, I have questioning life and death. Death; illness; both are misinterpreted approaches to death. You must wonder what I am speaking of; as do I, I will notify you the moment that I find the answer in this sea of doubt. I do not intend to mail this letter off because it is mostly for me. So, with this being said, I would like to describe my version of “Kurtz,” the Kurtz that I believe is the plug to this hole.
The Essay on Deaths Waiting List
... so easily forgotten until the time comes. In the essay, “Death’s Waiting List”, Sally Satel argues that morality will not persevere ... and the poor consideration of counter-arguments. In her essay, “Death’s Waiting List”, Sally Satel recommends incentives be given to those ... did not consider the many repercussions that may happen. In “Death’s Waiting List” by Sally Satel, the superb use of emotional ...
I am in the Jungles of Africa searching for you. I have traveled hundreds of miles to see you; I have survived attacks to see you; I have seen death, torture and slavery to see you; I have seen what, I hope, no other man should be allowed to see, simply to see You. You, you is a he whom I believe I may never see. You, to me, are a revelation, and in reality, revelations are not seen or heard with the senses-instead they are only perceived. That is what You are to me. A truth, a feature of this world-a gateway to another dimension that contains only darkness. The truth may be too hard for the human heart to endure. He is of enigmatical character, or so says the Russian man, the one with blue eyes. This Russian man is confused, I believe, which I may only believe to be my own foreshadowing of what is to come. This foreshadowing is an image of my boat, pushing along these green walls, along this muddy river, though this Fog, though Death, and trying to make sense of it all, but not being able to. Similar to predicting the future, the outcome can only be guessed, inaccurately. However, stating that all my experiences make no sense–now, I do understand that. Shall I bow to my knees when I meet the fateful hand of his?
So, I hear that you are ill; you have my sympathies; however, the bulk of my sympathies go to my helmsman, who, by the way, is dead by your attack. I had his rose-red blood spilling on my shoes–the spear that messed my shoes came from your people. Getting to You was not worth losing a man whom I have given recognition to, but it’s a bit too late. This angers me. Your timing could not have been worse. The helmsman was my partner; when I looked into his cold, expired eyes, we had a moment where time stood still and we became friends. Then I had to take my shoes off and through him overboard because of the cannibals I’m traveling with.
To you, Kurtz, I am ready to feel sorry for myself and address the sympathy that is within me. I am weak, yes. I have weaker morals than you, yes. However, does that make me any less of a person? So, is my destiny to travel down this deathful river into the heart of the Truth that you somehow may represent; and if so I hope that perhaps when I do come to your side, and, bow if need be, I will shake your hand and you will give me answers. Answers for my quest. You may tell me what you know about life, and love, and the existence of humanity– the role evil and lightless matter have in the universe– and how this oily mess spills from the hearts of men, and why. Why have I followed the path of liquid bordered by hollows of darkness and fog? And why I have passed dead corpses strewed along the forest floor like flowers in a meadow, death pouring like vapor from their gaping mouths, to get to you? Why have I embarked on this endeavor, simply to meet You? Crickets and fish and owls singing, and sprouting with life, hammered down by the presence of some ominous deathly aura that I feel may emanate from your being all throughout the Congo stretch. Why have I ventured so, and what is the purpose of this letter, but to try to let my mind grasp its existence? Oh, all these questions and the curiosity to find out! And so, you ask me… have I straightened my thoughts a bit–to perhaps make this voyage a bit more bearable without my questions haunting me so? And my answer for you, sir, is no. I suppose I will have to wait.
The Essay on Men Make a House, Women Make a Home
As such, they are found to be better parents than men. However the role of men in child-rearing cannot be undermined. Men are most necessary if children have to be fully aware of the roles of both genders. But women have proved themselves superior parents thanks to their feminine qualities, soft skills, less aggressive nature and their generally better communication skills. From an evolutionary ...
Marlow
