'I thank whatever gods may be, for my unconquerable soul.'
It was a line from William Ernest Henly's poem; Invictus, and Henri had scribbled it in cursive, on the dashboard of his car. I could remember reading it the second time he drove me to school. Somehow, I hadn't noticed it the first time. I asked him what it meant, and he had grinned and simply replied "It's whatever you want it to mean... lines of poetry aren't meant to be understood. They're meant to be felt."
Back then, I didn't know what feeling the poem incited in me, and so I didn't understand what he was trying to explain. But now, I could feel the anger bubbling on the surface, rising to my skin like tiny little blisters.
'I thank whatever gods may be, for my unconquerable soul...'
'Under the bludgeonings of chance, my h
