Oh, Sylvia Plath, my distraught, beautiful, intelligent, and foolish idol. You who killed yourself. You who reminds me precisely of the part of me that threatens my own doom. You once wrote in your journal that you loved too much or not at all, and I am much the same. Either I have little interest- none sufficient to satisfy the desire of whomever finds interest in me- or I am enraptured and obsessed beyond what I dare admit to anyone.
Sylvia, are you and I as alike as it seems we might have been? Tell me, did you know the mysterious, rare feeling that tells you (as the most trusted clear indicator) when you meet one whom you could love, if a relationship were to form? If so, my friend, how often did it come around for you? And to what result?
We are women: to feel what I feel is foolish, for only by the grace of God are two united who have the potential to love each other equally. And I, being a woman, can do nothing to gauge this or probe it, to do so would be folly.. I must only wait.. And prolong the silent joy of being INTERESTED in a fellow mortal and the constant fear of making a fool of my intuition and desires..