William Blake

I read a poem today by William Blake, The Fly, after listening to a new artist put it to music—in an Appalachia kind of way. It was a fun rendering. There is something simple and cathartic [adj.: of, relating to, or producing catharsis (noun: a purification or purgation that brings about spiritual renewal or release from tension)] in it. Here is the poem for you:

  

The Fly 

Little fly,
Thy summer’s play
My thoughtless hand
Has brushed away.

Am not I
A fly like thee?
Or art not thou
A man like me?

For I dance
And drink and sing,
Till some blind hand
Shall brush my wing.

If thought is life
And strength and breath,
And the want
Of thought is death,

Then am I
A happy fly,
If I live,
Or if I die. 

But as I'm sitting here thinking about what honestly made me the happiest today, it wasn't that, although that was a simple pleasure. I didn't want to share what actually made me happiest for vulnerability reasons, but here it is: I think I have a shot at the Georgetown English program. I actually think I could get in—a thing I never had supposed. Wish me luck.