A most proper grave for sanity (Hamlet Post #4) (Blog Post #16)

I have just read the strangest thing! Queen Gertrude had retreated to her chambers following my visit and picked apart every ballad I had hummed, scribbled notes upon an embroidered pad in ink laced with gold.

It had appeared most clearly she had been fearful of me during my visit. O how silly of her. What, surely, could a mad maid do? For I only sing to express my thoughts, my inklings, pay me no mind. What is there to fear rather than the truth? Perhaps it is this indeed that causes the Majesties of Denmark to pale. Ah, I see here Queen Gertrude has also made note of my first ballad, "How should I, your true love know, from another one?" (4.5.22-23)), and by it placed a photo of Hamlet Sr. Does this indicate some hidden guilt for her hasty remarriage? It very well should, if I say so myself. Such a wedding where "the funeral bak'd meats did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables" (1.2.179-180), have they no shame? Their motions have driven dear Hamlet to mindlessness.

But this madness of my own, what is its source? I have joined my love beyond the realm of sanity. At least we are united if nothing else.

Grieved I am over my father's grave. Lord Polonius was my father after all, surely this grief is firmly rooted, and "buried without loving rites" (Seng 217) but is this the sole cause of this craze? Not long before his death had he spoken to me with such harshness, o such sting that I shall never forget! Cautioned me he did against Hamlet's love, asking if I "believed his tenders of affection" (1.3.104). Indeed I had, as he had mportun'd me with love In honourable fashion" (1.3.110-111), "With almost all the holy vows of heaven" (1.3.114). However, Lord Polonius would believe me not. Could it be he himself who tore me from my youthful innocence? No not my father alone. My dear brother Laertes, with good intent, hath stained my childlike trust, having claimed Hamlet's love was fleeting and nothing beyond the trifles of a man with good fortune. My love for Hamlet and his for me was nothing but pure, nothing but holy, yet my father and brother slandered it to no end. Now I see my wrong. I had "known [myself to be in love with Hamlet and had thought [he] had loved [me]" (Seng 218) and I had been right. "For indeed, [I] had believed in Hamlet...and as it turns out...[my] trust was not misplaced" (Seng 220-221). The efforts made had sullied my mind, prompting me to reject my dearest love, beginning this chain of grief. O father, thou art a fool! Could thou have seen this purity, thou may still have breath.

This sudden death has tipped me over the edge of some unseen cliff but the climb has been quite a journey. "I cannot choose but weep, to think they would lay him i' the cold ground" (4.5.66) but this affliction runs deeper than the rivers carved by these tears. Indeed I am alone now, for "Denmark has become a prison" for my soul around which my father's death has fastened the barbed gates of grief (Seng 218-219). In a state as rotten as Denmark, the sane exist no more. 

Alas, in madness I have found my sanity.