I'm falling in love with Sylvia Plath. She is beautiful in her writing and I'm yearning for more everytime I get the chance to. Obviously, it seems redundant to say she's poetic because that's exactly what she was. However, I'm not reading her poetry, I'm reading her journals. Her everyday thoughts, worries, and emotions raveled up into a book of truthful observation, her sentiments preserved in the bindings. Its like when I read Zoe Trope's Please Don't Kill the Freshman all over again, thirteen and looking for answers wherever I can get them. The lost ages- thirteen and seventeen. The time when you are stuck in the bindings of your own journals and looking for a way out, yet trying to carry your past with you. Your past, afterall, is the only thing that you truly know the best because it is you. That is why people repeat the mistakes of others even if they know history: I can give great advice to others, I just cannot follow it myself. Every few pages, Sylvia repeats the thoughts I have daily. My worries, concerns, hopes, all seem to tread on the same trail she has already walked, skipped, and fallen on.
I'm still drinking coffee, and despite the fact its only cup number two, I've been sucking down caffeine for the past three hours. Its my perfect kind of morning, a slow awakening followed by reading and deep thought. The sun helps erase away the nightmares I keep having. Last night in my dream, I found out I had cancer, but usually I dream of my family dying off like victims of war. It makes me shiver and want to forget why I ever sleep at all. My mother says I have abandonment issues, but how can this be if I'm always the one who feels like I abandon people? I hate leaving the ones I love stranded. I need help, I need to stop feeling as if I'm abandoning myself.
I've been thinking an awful lot about fairytales, children stories really. Alice in Wonderland, Snow White, Peter Pan...don't you see the pattern unraveling? Lost children who have to find their way back home. How is it that I don't know where my home is, yet I have two homes always waiting for me? Perhaps, that's not what it means at all? What am I thinking subconciously in my skull, what is with this obsession I have with these stories?
Another new book of fascination: What Matters by David Elliot Cohen. Its a moving collaboration of some of the world's leading thinkers and best photojournalists to create a book that presents several significant issues affecting our world today. I want to engulf all of the knowledge into my brain forever. Its moving and splendid and inspirational to the end. Unintentionally moved, cross-legged on my bed with tears falling down my cheeks. Wiped one off with the brush of my fingertips, but the impact remained inside my heart. I'm suprised my ribs weren't cracking: it had felt like a train had hit me.
There is madness in the details, a molecular violence in my brain...
All I have done really, is written today. Words to heal, to hurt, to laugh, to reexamine the world around me. Is this world growing or is it shrinking? Statistically it is growing, and fast. But part of me says this doesn't make sense. I'm meeting new people and seeing new faces almost everyday, and yet...I feel as if I'm crawling deeper into myself. My little hole to Wonderland, flying away to Neverland, and running deeper into the forest until I cannot see the light.
...the decision to make a decision is often derailed, really the whole thing is insane...
I'm stuck in this world, and I feel like a child. Stuck in my dillusions of what is not real and the things that burst with reality. Sometimes I just want to escape from the truth of what the world is, of what it means to face it like an adult. I feel rather pathetic and cowardly thinking this way, yet it keeps coming back for more. A bad habit I wish I could break more easily. Tapping my feet, biting my lips until they bleed inside, peeling the weak parts of my nails rather than simply triming them. Terrible little habits that are controlling me. I'm spinning like a top and wondering how much it will hurt if I finally quit spinning. The pavement below sure looks hard, rough with imperfect grooves. There are no patterns and I think this terrifies me. If I stop spinning and fall from the dizziness, will the pavement bruise me?
"The truth doesn't always hurt...does it?"
