a piece of her mind :: essays research papers

Often our choices are based upon our basic needs and what makes us feel safe. Yet, there is always that minute doubt tangled within our gut, wondering what would have happened if we took the dangerous, the hesitant, and the more thrilling path. One of the most universal experiences human beings face as we begin to age is we start to look back upon our lives and wonder if we made the right choices. For some people, they experience a â€Å"mid life crisis† and choose to start all over again, desperately yearning for a different result. Others dwell in a sense of melancholy, saddened by their fantasies of what life could have been had they chosen â€Å"the other path.† What if I had married differently? What if I had chosen a different career? These â€Å"what ifs† begin to pile on top on one another, creating a disappointing mountain of uncertainty and speculation. Within Mrs. Dalloway, Virginia Woolf portrays Mrs. Clarissa Dalloway as a woman who is exploring the se questions in a single afternoon of her life. If Mrs. Dalloway were to have kept a diary during this one day in her life, the following is an excerpt of what I think she would have written in it. Dear Diary,   Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã¢â‚¬Å"As a cloud crossed the sun, silence falls on London: and falls on the mind. Effort ceases. Time flaps on the mast. There we stop; there we stand. Rigid, the skeleton of habit upholds the human frames.†(49) Earlier today, he just stood there in front of me, his failure figure seeming more daunting than ever before. As my eyes met his, drapes of memory began to unravel within my mind, uncovering the ancient sheds of abandoned feelings. It was too difficult to ignore the pulsating pain I felt when my eyes met hit. My eyes frantically searched for an escape outlet. As I passed through the gigantic wooden doors towards the small room, I was forced to confront the amber-stillness of a surprisingly placeless place. I scanned the room I had just finished cleaning nearly an hour earlier. While it all appeared to be in order and cleansed of any dust or untidiness, any slight disorder popped out at me. The tired shelves leaned to one side under the weight of abs ent books, now pushed to the floor perhaps by the wind. Faces were covering the wall, trapped in black and white cruelty of photographs and the muted murmur of faded laughter.