"In me she has drown a young girl, and in me an old woman
Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish."
"Mirror" -Sylvia Plath
"I'm getting old," she says, touching her neck. "Look at all these wrinkles."
A constant state of surprise
A strange reintroduction
A failure to recognize your self in your skin
How did things change when I feel quite the same?
I fear these pictures from my mom's wedding will take me a month to get through. They're all there- ready- but I can't get past the smallest batch before the swelling of some horrible force of emotion stalls me. Who IS that? Who IS she? Where AM I in that frame? How did I spend the whole weekend with them an not see them at all? How is it that my face?
and to think these are the easy years- years that i will look back on in a few decades as vibrant with a lack of responsibility. to think that the future scrapes toward a growing dependence- louder needs- more fragile mental landscapes- delicate conversations.
You can stop life from starting if you care enough to try, but there's no avoiding this sagging drag of time.
It makes me feel mad to live and mad to be and wild with urgency to experience everything and love intensely and
this pendulum
joy/despair
it swings and swings and swings
