Impressions from the lake district.

Unfortunately, I am not well at remembering names, neither of places nor people. However, it would be a mistake to assume disrespect on my behalf for this. Nevertheless, I would like to present my reflection on that terrible and unmerciful landscape that is doubtlessly the sinew for withering heights. This was a place which, no matter how lost in thought or personal discourses one may be, importunately interrupts these processes with it's existence. In this sense, it almost subordinates one's will to it's own. It is vampirical, fettering, dominating, and being such replaces it's subordinates with an irrevocable melancholy. This being said, it almost seems natural as to how Austin ends her whithering heights. She painstakingly illumines how this place pesters even the most personal event in peoples lives; death. Who could disagree with a graveyard inhabited by a choir of birds and their blood gargling crows. This place makes itself known, only to invade one's person, then to make itself their person. Here I was reminded of the Stalin socialist era, God, and modern education. All concepts and forces which enfeeble the individual will. In strong contrast, Wordsworth's territory produces a different sensation, and challenges a different motivation. It's rocky hills and narrow pathways, rugged with turbulently dancing plants and flowers, are uplifting. It felt like an obstacle course which one takes on willingly for the single purpose of personal growth. It strengthens the will.