Because I have lost all the ability of express myself more clearly, because you, forever elude me, because, after every line is read, every word written, and every syllable carefully constructed in my head, they all just spout into a soup of odd adjectives incomprehensible and self denying.
And the sister tries to decipher whatever blabber of thoughts jumbled up moans she receives through the telephone trying to make sense of every single amplified elongated dragged out syllable, a work unaccomplished.
What is this, some cry or an outburst, another one of you antiques? Shall you emerge sane, in the end? And the words that keep on turning in your head is one of Plath’s I cannot stand being a passing fancy. How merging, now you open her up like a book of advice, trying to seek ease, when in fact all she manages to do is drag you down with her. of course, you never even had the ability to be verbose, the ability to think for yourself. You have now ceased to function and you keep on clinging to every single person you know to try and replace your soul. You want to cease being.
And then trying to recite poetry in the middle of the night. Preposterous. Blake turns in his grave. Peace visits us peace visits us you convince yourself . At ease soldier heart at ease.
perkaraperkara 