There are so many things I want to do with this life. Just like Sylvia Plath in her terror, unable to deal with the tree of endless possibilities, unable to choose, and the inability to choose causing the possibilities to die but the very act of choosing cutting off all other branches and the tree well it's an endless mind fuck the end.
I'm going to bed, I've over done it and can't examine myself under this bell jar any more this fine night.
My mother still thinks of my freelance journalistic writing with longing. Should I be doing that?
Am I losing myself here, or will I find whoever is supposed to come out between the scholarly citations...I mean can I still be expressive and not over-burdened with academicese to the point of stomping out what makes a soul beautiful. Or will it just be more so?
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