Funeral March (Blog #6)

"Radioactive"

I'm waking up to ash and dust
I wipe my brow and I sweat my rust
I'm breathing in the chemicals, I'm breaking in, shaping up, then checking out on the prison bus
This is it, the apocalypse
Whoa

I'm waking up, I feel it in my bones
Enough to make my systems blow
Welcome to the new age, to the new age
Welcome to the new age, to the new age
Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, I'm radioactive, radioactive
Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, I'm radioactive, radioactive

I raise my flags, don my clothes
It's a revolution, I suppose
We're painted red to fit right in
Whoa

I'm breaking in, shaping up, then checking out on the prison bus
This is it, the apocalypse
Whoa

I'm waking up, I feel it in my bones
Enough to make my systems blow
Welcome to the new age, to the new age
Welcome to the new age, to the new age
Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, I'm radioactive, radioactive
Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, I'm radioactive, radioactive

All systems go, the sun hasn't died
Deep in my bones, straight from inside

I'm waking up, I feel it in my bones
Enough to make my systems blow
Welcome to the new age, to the new age
Welcome to the new age, to the new age
Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, I'm radioactive, radioactive
Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, I'm radioactive, radioactive



If I were to die anytime soon, which I most likely will. Sad to say... I know, but I mean I'm going mad here! *maniacal giggling* But out of this madness I can see life differently. It's actually quite nice to see life from a different perspective, a new way. Also with death people must welcome a new age.

I believe that when I'm gone it will create something big, like an apocalypse. I know that my brother will just have a fit about my death, "Oh, treble woe / Fall ten times treble on that cursèd head, / Whose wicked deed thy most ingenious sense / Deprived thee of! Hold off the earth awhile / Till I have caught her once more in mine arms." (5.1.222-226). And what of my dear Hamlet? I do not know anymore how he would react... But I would hope it would be in my favor, "I loved Ophelia. Forty thousand brothers / Could not with all their quantity of love / Make up my sum. What wilt thou do for her? " (5.1.247-249). Ooh, or maybe even, "'Swounds, show me what thou'lt do. / Woo’t weep? Woo’t fight? Woo’t fast? Woo’t tear /  thyself? / Woo’t drink up eisel, eat a crocodile? / I’ll do ’t. Dost thou come here to whine, / To outface me with leaping in her grave? / Be buried quick with her?—and so will I." (5.1.252-258). That would put my soul at ease. Maybe not my brothers, cause I know he would just want to tackle Hamlet to the ground if he said that. I honestly think that they would fight, because of me, which is not really good, but hey I wouldn't be able to do anything about it. So back to explaining why I want this song to play at my funeral march.

I realized I have been breathing in the chemicals that have brought me here to this madness. With my brother and father disapproving my love, "I would not, in plain terms, from this time forth, / Have you so slander any moment leisure, / As to give words or talk with the Lord Hamlet." (1.3.132-134). Hamlet saying, "I loved / you not." (3.1.121-122).Making me spy on Hamlet, "For we have closely sent for Hamlet hither, / That he, as ’twere by accident, may here / Affront Ophelia. / Her father and myself / Will so bestow ourselves that, seeing unseen," (3.1.30-34). And finally my father dying, "Thou wretched, rash, intruding fool, farewell. / I took thee for thy better. Take thy fortune. / Thou find’st to be too busy is some danger." (3.4.32-34). Denmark really is an awful place, "Denmark's a prison." (2.2.229). I really do feel like death would be the only way to escape this prison *bus*. Even though it's quite sad, it's all very true... Hamlet was right, "To be, or not to be? That is the question— / Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer / The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, / Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, / And, by opposing, end them?" (3.1.57-61) it really is the question... sometimes it really isn't worth it to keep self destructing after a while it just gets to you and the next thing you know you drown in a river, "There is a willow grows aslant a brook / That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream. / There with fantastic garlands did she come / Of crowflowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples, / That liberal shepherds give a grosser name, / But our cold maids do “dead men’s fingers” call them. / There, on the pendant boughs her coronet weeds / Clambering to hang, an envious sliver broke, / When down her weedy trophies and herself / Fell in the weeping brook. Her clothes spread wide, / And mermaid-like a while they bore her up, / Which time she chanted snatches of old lauds / As one incapable of her own distress, / Or like a creature native and indued / Unto that element. But long it could not be / Till that her garments, heavy with their drink, / Pulled the poor wretch from her melodious lay / To muddy death." (4.7.162-179).

Ophelia I'm radioactive