Blindsided by your own truth.

I have a lot of thoughts, lots and lots of them.

There was a time when I hated Sylvia Plath, I had never really looked at much of her work and what I did I dismissed as whiny and pessimistic. --But then I read Black Rook in Rainy Weather. And then I read it again. And then I kept on reading it until I had scribbled all over my copy of it and written notes and explicated the thing more than I'd ever done any other text. And I felt like it was mine. --I sat back and was in awe of the vastness of the universe, and the suffocated nature of man. For a moment I am contained in eschatological existence, I am Sylvia Plath, and I am myself, and we are both the Black Rook in Rainy Weather. And I did not hate Sylvia.
What others call love, I call connections, and so deeply was the the poem rooted, that having it in common made me love Sylvia Plath. I want to stand in the streets and hold her words and read them to everyone. And someone would understand and they would feel like Sylvia Plath and like me and still very much like themselves and we would all be connected. We would be loved.