“And when at last you find someone to whom you feel you can pour out your soul, you stop in shock at the words you utter— they are so rusty, so ugly, so meaningless and feeble from being kept in the small cramped dark inside you so long.”—Sylvia Plath (via cosmicallyfuckedup)
Umm, hmm.. Wow, that’s tough. Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises is one, Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close by Jonathan Safran Foer is another. Also like The Stranger, All Quiet on the Western Front, Ordinary People, Passing. Many different plays including Sartre’s No Exit and Ibsen’s Ghosts. Of course I was always a big HP fan. There’s many more than that, it’s hard to narrow down to a single favorite.
I’m currently reading Hemingway’s To Have and Have Not. Good question, thanks for the inquiry haha.
There was something about the way I was looking and searching that reminded me of building a fire as the only heat source. To have the spark, the fuel, the flames; the wind, the dampness, the supplies. We have the spark, My God do we have the spark, but did I chance to take off my glove and begin too soon? Did we throw a log onto hot coals of paper kindling?
But in measures of accuracy, love is a rose clipping. Beautiful with overlapping tight petals, where if you squint hard enough you can see two lovers in embrace. A strong thick stem, as all foundations should be stronger than the last. Then however, we meet the thorns. Reminding us that love is never simply all good, and that stinging obstacles do arise. I guess it was this part that I have a tendency to forget.
Where roads diverged, I chose you. So damn me if I know what I want for once, so curse me if I’ve lost my mind; so content me because that’s what you do best, even silencing my worries to lull. Then just as I’ve sung to you in my quietest whisper, “Like a bridge over troubled water, I will ease your mind”.
I’m spinning in circles. You know I don’t know what to do, how to help, where to start, where to go, and will I scare myself to our demise because of the added responsibilities? There is a fire to be tended to, not later, but now.
Some news that had not yet dried dowsed our flame into something smoking with red coals. And now we begin to restructure piece by piece, your hands working fast with mine.
We will question, we will doubt, but my searching eyes found us for gold and I pray that we are nothing short of that. It just takes time. Silly me, don’t I know everything takes time?