last night i tried to read Plath again, the journal. I ended up dozing like shit after 5 minutes.
i think i will never ever comprehend her rambling. it is not out of understanding. i adore Plath craziness. just it is like reading someone diary you have known too well. every word sounds like an echo, rebound to me like "yeah i feel that too" feeling. reflection of me in a broken glass. ugly to see, yet i am scare i will bleed my fingers if i touch it too long.
i am not comparing myself to her. she is like a goddess of bell jar herself. read her journal, maybe you wish to be forever protected from the outside world. to breath your own suffering and turn on the gas and die. (i met few people who constantly talking about ending their life but yet hanging lazily on the balcony. admiring the scenery but no guts to just leap.)
but me, i am still have few things to do. i want to die in the arm of my beloved one if i can. not by elephant crushing me violently. or slicing my wrist for fuck sake. it did crossed my mind of doing it but hell, i blamed it on the moon. anyway i can not see the light at the end of tunnel. black pitch. not yet. not now. not until i am safe on his embrace again.
so all this week of having holiday for my sickness, i will dedicate my time to read more of Plath. then go flop with grogginess and rest flat on my bed nest. i will let the balcony alone. or even the gas. i can not imagine myself end up with such tragedy. suicide is boring and pompous.
if i am still alive up till now, i would like to thank you. i don't want to be noble as i am not. (you know how a proudly bitch i am, right) just a thank you as a token of commitment i had promised you. to love you beyond my right mind.
i am a proudly stupid bitch now...
and you are the reason of me having no guts to leap. come sit with me and admiring the scenery while we still have the time.
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