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The weight of their packs were obviously not the greatest burden these men struggled with as seen in the picture. Most were young men who abruptly had a responsibility greater than most will ever know.

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The man in the picture believes that he is doing well and is successful. Just as Willy was until the truth was forced in to focus.

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It is hard to believe the money that is availiable to some, while others have very little.  How much is gained from hard work or brilliant ideas, and how much is from corruption or who they know?  How much missed on laziness and grand ideas and how much is missed on principle and values? More money should go to those that earn it, but where is the line on who deservs it?  Why, do they deserve it? How much?

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The quilts are kind of like Maggie’s life, pieces of her family’s past and secluded from the material world. Maggie has learned skills from her family and can recall family members when performing those skills.  The quilts are a patchwork of articles of cloth from her relatives clothing sewn to retain heat. The sister would like to take the quilts and hang them on a wall as decoration, rather than have them used as they were intended. In the sister’s suggestion that Maggie should make something of herself, she points out that she does not see the value in a simple and practical life like Maggie’s.

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Children can be very cruel to someone that is different. Sometimes it is due to the fact that they have never really been hurt by being picked on. Other times it is like the story said, if someone is mean to you it sometimes feels good to be mean to another.

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The picture illustrates the struggles within the young man's mind over how to deal with the racism in his community. On one hand he wants to stand up and fight, but is pulled back in to submission by the belief that he can go farther by going along. His choice to be passive is resented by the other men resulting in further conflict and struggles.

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How long can a dream be denied before it leads to breakdown? If a dream is put off it is thought to have been canceled, especially if that has been the case in the past. Once a point is reached and the right people are present it is as if an explosion takes place. Barriers and boundaries seem to disappear and new paths open up.

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"And so even though we face the difficulties of today and tomorrow, I still have a dream. It is a dream deeply rooted in the American dream. I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal.""

-Dr. Martin Luther King

During the entire time I was reading this poem I kept thinking of how the equality spoken of in the Deceleration of Independence is not as easily put into practice as it was to write. The founders of this nation understood repression and inequality, but even with the words in the Deceleration of Independence the problem still made its way in to the normal practice of the new nation. Even today there is a struggle to reach equality for all when name, money, position, and appearance give more benefits to some.

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It seems like the more a celebrity gets arrested, acts out inappropriately, and demonstrates behaviors that are not the norm the more popular they become.  Intelligence does not mix well with excessive amounts of alcohol.  If it took place today he might end up with his own reality show and see his dream come to life

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This picture makes me think this may have been similar to the sign the manager hurriedly
made after the incident with the girls in the story.  The story brings bake memories of youth and the ideas of how things might work out to ones favor, but in the end only end in mediocrity.  The boy thought he would instantly be the hero, but was in the end only jobless.

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This story reminded me of these pictures of children working in sweatshops I had seen in another class.  The children in these pictures worked just as the people in the story with poor unsafe conditions, and low pay, long hours.

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I choose the image below because of how Helmer viewed Nora as a doll, but when she reflected on how she seen herself she saw a flawed image.  The cracks that look as if they are on a porcilen doll, represent the problems in her person she has to correct.

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This article describes how the writer experienced a series of losses and shifts in relationships and found herself in a position that she did not understand.  She began to hear voices and question her sanity.  Unlike the woman in the story she was able to get out and interact with others to help work through the loneliness.

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'I'm not crazy, just lonely': A writer reveals how she was driven to the brink of madness

At first it seemed to be an evening like any other. I had finished work for the day at the small firm where I work as a lawyer and was engaged in what I called my Friday-evening dawdling.

I bought a book, then had a cup of mint tea at a cafe. When I'd finished, I found myself browsing in a nearby clothes shop. Before long, I found myself standing at a train station, leaning over the railings watching the commuters below.

Although I didn't know any of the people I was seeing, I felt I had some sense of how their evenings were going to unfold. The leisurely pace and the look of relaxation on many faces spoke of home lives, of boarding a train to meet a wife, or boyfriend, or best friend.

And I realised that my life was not like that. I had no one to visit, no one to return home to, and, suddenly, my daily after-work loitering assumed a different hue. I hadn't been dawdling, I'd been avoiding something - my inevitable return to an empty flat and to a weekend that offered nothing in the way of company.

My loneliness seemed stark. it was as though the world was full of riches that had suddenly escaped me. The strategies I'd been deploying against feeling alone - reading, window-shopping, wandering - suddenly felt childish; forms of evasion that were bound to fail.

As I stood at the rail looking at those other people with places to go, I felt light and unfixed, as though there wasn't enough to me to keep me grounded. It wasn't one thing, but a culmination of factors that led me to this point.

Nine months earlier, in 2001, my father died and a chasm opened up in my life. I didn't realise it at first, but even though he'd been absent for much of my childhood because my parents divorced when I was four, my father mirrored myself.

He was quiet and reserved like me. There was also a steady, unwavering gentleness to him that made me feel safe. When I lost him, I lost the sense I had of matching with at least one other person, and as this feeling evaporated, my relationships with others began to thin.

In 2002, in the months following my father's death, my close friend Simon and his wife discovered that they were expecting another child. Naturally, this discovery pulled them closer into a home-based world that had less time for me.

Simultaneously, my friend Laura began working for a woman's law organisation in Kenya, another friend Juliette became heavily involved in her job with a film company and Georgina - another pal - moved to a different town.

To combat my growing feelings of alienation, I began an ill-fated romance with a tall, dark-haired professor. His resemblance to my father (both men were clever and book-ish) became so obvious and disturbing that I ended the relationship before it had a chance to bloom.

In short, I became cut off from other people. I had a constantly anxious feeling that I was alone too much. I had friends and family, but I was no longer seeing them as much, and it wasn't uncommon for me to go the whole weekend without seeing anyone at all.

'Loneliness is trivial, so I've been told; shameful, irrelevant. My own loneliness tells me this is not the case'

As the situation became worse, I began to feel more ashamed of how lonely I felt and, increasingly, too embarrassed to talk about it; too concerned that people wouldn't understand, that they would say: 'But you have friends, so how can you feel as though you are alone?'

But the truth was that loneliness had long been a problem for me.

My parent's divorce wasn't made easier by the fact that my sisters were much older than me. By the age of nine, I had the manners of a much older child. I knew how to be polite with my parents, deferent with teachers, but I didn't relate to other children of my own age.

Now, as an adult, spending increasing amounts of time alone, that loneliness grew more acute. I began to hear voices and sounds in my head. An affliction I came to describe as 'conversationitis' started dominating my time - a constant line of chatter which wound its way through my mind.

If I'd talked with someone at work that afternoon, the discussion would replay itself as though on a loop later that night. Songs raced through my head, as did imagined responses to radio phone-ins and recollected disputes with my former flatmate Martin.

In short, I began to feel like I was going crazy. I knew that hearing voices was an early sign of schizophrenia, and I worried that I was beginning to manifest the signs of something more disturbing than just the effects of spending a lot of time solo. In desperation, a few months after this started, I turned to a therapist for help and asked her what was happening to me.

'You're lonely,' she said, very gently.

The words hit me like a slap. Although I should have seen her response coming - and probably should have been able to spot the source of the problem - I was shocked and embarrassed.

But why did I react like that? Being diagnosed as lonely is a far less severe outcome than being told you're showing signs of schizophrenia. However, both have stigmas. Loneliness is also not something people talk about.

I decided that I needed some way of trying to understand my state of mind. I began to toy with the idea of researching loneliness.

It might seem like an odd reaction, but at that point in my life it was routine for me to spend eight hours a day pondering a legal problem until I came up with a solution. By treating loneliness in this way, I found I could soften its emotional blow.

I signed out all the books on loneliness I could find in the library; I started typing 'loneliness' and ' isolation' into Google. I read novels featuring lonely characters such as Kazuo Ishiguro's The Remains Of The Day.

I began to take notes describing my condition, how I felt. I documented the nights of broken sleep, I wrote about my headaches and how I felt that loneliness was making me ill.

'It wasn't that lonely people lacked social skills, but rather that they had good skills but somehow found themselves cut off from using them'

And I drew up lists of my shortcomings ('I'm too demanding'), my looks ('Perhaps I should get contacts?'), my clothes ('Buy sexier underwear'), my body ('Lose weight') and even my shoes ('Less sensible'). I even thought about paying a psychic to tell me how long my loneliness might last.

Then in 2005, three years after I had first started to feel this way, I quit my job to write full-time. I had always wanted to be a writer and it seemed I had a subject.

Yet when I first mentioned I was writing a book about the subject of chronic loneliness, many people would ask me: 'Why?' It's as if people don't feel that loneliness is real - at least, not in the way that depression or bipolar disorder are real. It's trivial, so I've been told; shameful, irrelevant. My own loneliness tells me this is not the case.

When I started to write the book in 2006, I also started a blog about loneliness and invited other people to respond. I spoke to lonely people from all manner of backgrounds and countries.

There were people who said: 'I'm not a loser, I'm popular,' or 'no one, knowing me, would think that I had a problem with loneliness.'

What they were saying was what I felt - that it wasn't that lonely people lacked social skills, but rather that they had good skills but somehow found themselves cut off from using them.

Many of the people who responded would say that they hadn't been shy, but that loneliness had made them feel that way; inhibition hadn't initially defined their social lives, but now it did, leaving them unable to commit to events.

SINGLE STATISTICS

There are 7.5m people in the UK (half of pensionable age) living alone, compared with 4.3m people 15 years ago, according to the Office of National Statistics

Yet, at the same time, many would say that while they felt angry, or stupid, or hopeless for feeling this way, they were also aware of increasingly choosing to cut themselves off from others.

We live in a world where our connections with people can be fleeting and shallow. Technology is meant to have made us able to connect with others more easily than ever before, yet we are lonelier than in previous decades.

Lonely people retreat from social ties just as they need them most. I started ignoring invitations to events. I retreated into my loneliness.

But I also knew that it was wrong not to interact with people, so I deliberately tried to embrace social events. I signed up for a bike tour in northern Ontario during which I was to spend four days in the middle of nowhere with eight other people. It was enormously difficult. I just wanted to be alone.

I had recurring dreams in which I was searching for the location of a party and unable to find it. Struggling to sleep I would get up in the night and eat.

Doctors and therapists were unsure what to diagnose. Some tried to tell me I was suffering from depression, but I knew this wasn't the case. I wasn't acutely depressed about my life: I had friends, I had a good job, I had a terrific flat. I needed a strong connection in my life.

And, in the end, I found one. Forcing myself to do something that was social without being intensely social (as the misguided bike trip had been), I joined a basketball league and met my partner there.

That's not to say my loneliness has gone. It's just different. I'm more shy than before my loneliness hit; I'm more hesitant in engaging with others; I'm less showy. I can't say I'll never be lonely again, just that if it comes again, I'll be prepared.

Lonely: A Memoir, by Emily White, is published by HarperCollins.

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'I'm not crazy, just lonely': A writer reveals how she was driven to the brink of madness

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At first it seemed to be an evening like any other. I had finished work for the day at the small firm where I work as a lawyer and was engaged in what I called my Friday-evening dawdling. I bought a book, then had a cup of mint tea at a cafe.

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Mothers have so much information about life to share with their children.  In most cases it is from experience and only desire to save their child from the same difficulties. At times it can seem as if it is a continuous list of do’s and don’ts.  The tag goes along with the story in that the mother can give instruction on any matter of life.

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Mrs. Mallard Had no joy in living her life with her husband, so when she thought she was free of him she began to imagine the fun returning to her life.  Her heart swelled with the hope of freedom, then was left with a void at its removal. Once the hope of her freedom was removed it was too much for her heart to take.

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The broken bird cage represents the escape of Minnie Foster from the life of Mrs. John Wright.  The breaking of the bird cage set off a series of events that would lead to her freedom. While in the story it was only a broken door, in the picture the cage is basically smashed. The further damage represents the further impact of the actions of Mrs. Hale and Mrs. Peters.