Damn Sylvia Plath for being an addicting author. I have to read her, get my fix, but I always leave with my spirits 6 feet lower than where they were when I started. But what the hell, who needs [colors, good music, confidence, laughter, and general feelings of contentedness] anyhow…
When I open my bedroom curtains, I see a poorly kept apple orchard. Every time. Any season…it’s always there, behind the curtains. I keep thinking one of these times I’ll look out and it will be gone…replaced by the offspring buildings of some capitalistic maniac’s thriving business. But it never is. And maybe that’s why I keep looking out there. I think I’m kind of afraid for it.
I was at the store today and found that I’m still tempted by a lot of junk food. I ran into an old neighbor of mine (inevitably) and chatted about her husband and kids. She asked me where I planned to go to college and later remarked that it looks like I’ve got a good life ahead of me. And then swiftly, out of nowhere, my mind is flooded with this obscure vision of myself as a miserable middle-aged woman stamping helplessly at a black dot on the carpet, thinking it’s an insect when it’s really only lint.
Ah, and it bothers me.
I’ve had enough thoughts such as those lately to fill a book, though you’d have to be crazy to want to buy it. I should not have to fight to maintain my sanity, but because I do, I’ve got to keep refreshing my artilleries. That means good literature, long glances at the stars that I love, and special attention to the fact that winter’s almost over.
As for the good literature part of that plan…I think I’m going to read more Sylvia Plath. Right now. Have fun doing what you’re doing.