<span>I think about my past a lot, they say your past doesn’t define your future but honestly, it does. I think about that last moment I saw you, that last moment I heard your voice. I think about it all the time. He would hide me from your boyfriends. I think of the times when he would come back to our room with bruises and bleeding. I think of that first moment I thought it was okay to do things I shouldn’t just because I was taught wrong. I remember the crack in your voice when you said you’ll come back for me. I remember all the late nights filled with screaming and fighting. I remember the moment you gave up on me, the moment you decided sex and drugs were more important than your babies. I remember the look in your eye’s the last time I saw you, all I could see was that it didn’t faze you. I try to look at life in a positive way but honestly, all I see is the negative. Do you remember all the tears? all the screams? all the terror? I do. I guess I should say thank you. thank you for embedding my brain with these things I will never forget no matter how much I try. But thank you for teaching me that this world isn’t butterflies and rainbows no matter how many times I close my eyes to try to imagine... this perfect world that will never exist. this just means the future will be hard, but nothing I can’t just push past because you filled me with enough pain... what’s a little more? Is it not like I have feeling’s huh? because I can’t feel pain? Right? I can’t possibly remember anything from that far long ago. Even though I say I can’t remember. Maybe I can... something brings it back, simple word or smell sends a river of memory rushing over me. That memory I have you to thank for. I don’t blame you, it was your life your decisions maybe you had a reason that I don’t know of or don’t understand. When I close my eyes and try to imagine you, I can’t. All I get is dark deep blackness. What happens now? How do I get past this no matter how tightly my eyes are shut or that my nails are digging in my skin because my fist is so tight I can’t get past the pain, all that pass pain. I have a 6-foot thick wall put up around me, I’m boxed in. the only thing I have to see the outside and let people in is a 6-foot hole through one of the 6 sides. but that hole is tiny I’m trying so hard to let people in. I can’t break down this wall, I put it up to shut people like you out but I shut everyone out. I know how to break that wall but am I ready. Am I ready to forgive and forget? Am I ready to let go of my past? I don’t know, it kill’s me how you destroyed MY life you destroyed HIS life and I have to forgive you he already has. but I’m not him I’m not waiting for you to come back with an open arm that’s him the one who was hurt the most the one who can’t hide his pain like I can. If he can and I can’t there has to be something I’m missing. I’m messing with you, I never had that I don’t remember the love from you only the pain. but he does he is the strong one, not me, he is the brave one, not me. he is the broken one who is just now learning how to make peace with the past but me I still need time. I can’t let go quite yet.</span>
It should be the third choice "The mother was unable to provide for their needs"
Hope I helped :3
The drama is a very ancient form of art, and reached a high pitch of excellence in ancient Greece, which produced such great dramatists as Aeschylus, Sophocles, Euripides and the satirist Aristophanes. The Greeks were passionately fond of the theatre, and crowded to see and hear the plays of these great poets.
In England, the drama came into full flower in the age of Queen Elizabeth, and the number of able Elizabethan dramatists, of whom Shakespeare was the greatest, shows what an intense interest the English people took in the theatre.
The actual theaters in those days were very primitive, and scarcely any scenery was used; but the dramas produced are the greatest in English literature.
Theatres today are places of amusement, resorted to, as a rule, in the evening after the work of the day. The buildings are large and comfortable, and the scenery is magnificent and realistic.
The scenic arrangements delight the eye, the music charms the soul, and the situations created by the plot are such as to arouse the interest, and make us lose the sense of our own troubles and worries in sympathy with the joys and sorrows of those who are impersonated upon the stage.
Theatres being looked upon, in modern times, largely as places of recreation, the public demands amusement, “and those representations which are of a cheerful and joyous nature, those plots which involve the characters in trouble and leave them in possession of unalloyed happiness, are the most popular, even though in many cases they are untrue to life. There is, however, another side to the question. The English stage was most flourishing in the time of Queen Elizabeth. The dramatists of that day looked upon amusement as only a part of their duties. Many men of lofty and penetrating intellect used the theatre as a medium for the expression of their thoughts and ideas.
Their aim was to ennoble and elevate the audience, and imbue it with their own philosophy, by presenting noble characters working out their destiny amid trials and temptations, and their pictures, being essentially true to nature, acted as powerful incentives to the cultivation of morality.
Shakespeare stands preeminent among them all, because by his wealth of inspiring thought he gives food for reflection to the wisest, and yet charms all by his wit and humour and exhibits for ridicule follies and absurdities of men.
It is a great testimony to the universality of his genius that, even in translations, he appeals to many thousands of those who frequent Indian theatres, and who differ so much in thought, customs and religion from the audiences for which he wrote.
