(no subject)
Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar has been sitting on my bookshelf for a few years, but I never took the time to read it. Last week, however, in the midst of personal strangeness, I picked it up. I have not finished a book in probably over a year, which says something about the haphazard direction my life is taking because I used to always have a book in hand. Lately though, I get bored quickly and move from book to book almost as quickly as I switch moods.
I have not finished the book yet, so I need not rush to congratulate myself. But I’m finding it rather uncomfortable how the narrator’s feelings mirror my own. I don’t want to keep reading for fear that I will uncover my own life’s unhappy ending, yet, much like human nature itself, I can’t stop myself from looking at the macabre train wreck that lies ahead.
Don’t get the wrong idea, though. Despite my current misgivings I’m still the shit. Don’t be fooled.