Sometimes I wish I was related to Sylvia Plath, as if she was my sister. Reading her journals recently, these past few months…. slowly reading each entry per day, it’s almost like she’s confiding in me. Sometimes, I think like her, having the strangest thoughts. Having such ridiculous fantasies. Having such desires to be with common men; the ones who are intelligent, the ones who understands us.
Sometimes, I really do wonder, if I’m leading a second life of hers. The things we love, we like, and the events that has happened in our life. The similarities. Our beliefs.
A second life, a second chance, to make one’s previous life better. To have a better chance in accomplishing the things we could not do before.
I’m not reading her journals. I’m reading mine. My journals. Our journals.