The memories still keep me from my slumber. When I awake from my slumber its as though I have not slept.
Why did the old man have so much blood in him. I would have killed him myself did he not look so much like my father while he slept. i thought that with the washing of my hands i could remove myself of the crime but my fitful state argues that thought.
I must get these hands clean.
The doctors tell me I walk at night although I can't recall. They say my eyes don't see and that I talk though no one's seen.
The guilt is overwhelming and although i often wash my hands , the blood it still remains. Will these hands never be clean.
My brain is so racked with guilt that in this house a fitful sleep is all that i am granted like macbeth did say sleep hath been murdered. I see strange words in this diary that are in my hand yet not my thought nor memory. These fits of sleepless slumber, unrecalled words and deeds worry my dearest macbeth and i often hear him ask the doctor why there is no cure for me. The doctor says that my illness is one of the mind at that i will be cured with time although as i my mind escapes me doubt begins to appear.
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What need we fear who knows it, when none can call our power to account?Here's the smell of the blood still all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand.
It's been too long since last i slept a night without a senseless sleep.The unknown words that fill the pages when I wake are proof of my madness . I have not left my chamber in weeks and my guard and chamber woman worry and check on me constantly. All there is to do is sleep. And yet even that can bring me release from the thoughts that have taken my brain prisoner.
Those cursed woman that poisoned Macbeth's mind