Under all of the sky, is there any who-
No, let it not be so, it's crippling-
Share in the absurd banality of this manner of existence?0
Or do I stand alone? (That priceless question).
Under-stimulated and over-stressed I rot..
Never shall I be granted the gift of tangible insanity..
Document this well: it's so bland, you will never believe.
I stepped into the media center with no distinct purpose in mind. As is natural for one who feels desperately out of place and a need to hide, I looked for familiar faces and found two on the far end of the bland, dull room.
I greeted the two, likely, in that action, butting in where I wasn't really wanted. The pitiful selection of memoirs, biographies, journals, and autobiographies were found directly behind our group, and I turned to investigate them, after making awkward chat (I say "awkward" only because every thing I do, all my endeavors, are awkward beyond belief). With no set book, author, or subject in mind, I perused the lines of books.
Sylvia Plath; The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath. Completely and utterly perfect in it's 700-page entirety. I scooped up the book as if I were saving it from a blazing inferno.
Sylvia Plath.. I'd read the Bell Jar and fell in love with it. I'd sat in quiet angst about it as normal, happy girls struggled their way through the intricacies of the main character's madness. I'd read her poems- Ah, Ariel- and marveled at the small bits of the tragic web she'd wound about herself that seduced her head into a gas oven. Sylvia: she was the idol I'd never meet- but reading thoughts is always better.
I'm a bit like Sylvia, just with more of a desire to be a woman and a bit more faith and hope in the world and a bit more to be cynical about. She is, too, smarter; I live.. I live such a normal existence..