“If I didn't think, I'd be much happier; if I didn't have any sex organs, I wouldn't waver on the brink of nervous emotion and tears all the time. ” (Sylvia Plath, Unabridged Journals) I've cried all all night till there was nothing more, like Zooey Deschanel, but now, I think, perhaps, its time to summon the strength of fellow bipolar patient, Sylvia Plath. I write about Sylvia often. She comforts me, you see. Her bursting passion. Her devastating psychosis. Her hot desire. And today, after brushing away more than a few tears, it occurred to me that when Sylvia wanted kissed "bang, smash on the mouth" she didn't stand around crying. Sylvia could, and did, look a loaded crossbow in the eye, and stand nonplussed and unimpressed. Of meeting Ted Hughes, she wrote.
"I was stamping and he was stamping on the floor, and then he kissed me bang smash on the mouth and ripped my hairband off, my lovely red headband scarf which had weathered the sun and much, and whose like I shall never again find, and my favorite silver earrings: hah, I shall keep, he barked. And when he kissed my neck I bit him long and hard on the cheek, and when we ccame out of the room, blood was running down his face..." (the crossbow was in the other room)
So, for, tonight, I think I'll tie a red hairband around my brown curls, practice a little patience, remember how hot my fire burns, and thank Sylvia for the example. “How frail the human heart must be -- a mirrored pool of thought.”