As the holiday, the holy day, draws nearer, i isolate myself, dedicate mysef to lonely nights of candlelight, the shadows flickering over my face. The finest dress, of midnight flowing fabric, thin silver chains. And a skirt, it was black. Svart tyll, flera lager. And a billowing, pink hem. Lovely lovely pink. It was beautiful. Walking those goth streets, a reminisce of pale faces, without hope, and red, painfully red, tears. And reading. Short stories of tormenting beauty and excruciating pain, of renegades and failures. And that was only by chance, i picked the booklet up from a set of stairs, leading up from the street to some place i didnt go. and started to read. and one of the characters read sylvia plath, she wanted to die. and i looked it up.
Ladies and gentlemen and everyone else in neither category. Here she is. Sylvia.
Cinderella
The prince leans to the girl in scarlet heels,
Her green eyes slant, hair flaring in a fan
Of silver as the rondo slows; now reels
Begin on tilted violins to span
The whole revolving tall glass palace hall
Where guests slide gliding into light like wine;
Rose candles flicker on the lilac wall
Reflecting in a million flagons' shine,
And glided couples all in whirling trance
Follow holiday revel begun long since,
Until near twelve the strange girl all at once
Guilt-stricken halts, pales, clings to the prince
As amid the hectic music and cocktail talk
She hears the caustic ticking of the clock.
I just got so aware of ticking clocks, just because i read all this. Here is some more for you.
Doom of Exiles
Now we, returning from the vaulted domes
Of our colossal sleep, come home to find
A tall metropolis of catacombs
Erected down the gangways of our mind.
Green alleys where we reveled have become
The infernal haunt of demon dangers;
Both seraph song and violins are dumb;
Each clock tick consecrates the death of strangers
Backward we traveled to reclaim the day
Before we fell, like Icarus, undone;
All we find are altars in decay
And profane words scrawled black across the sun.
Still, stubbornly we try to crack the nut
In which the riddle of our race is shut.
i found beautiful white little wish candles today, but i didnt buy them. what if i had written a wish on a piece of old parchment, wrapped it round the little candle and burnt it, the wish rising with the smoke to the gods. More Plath:
Mad Girl's Love Song
"I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)
The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)
God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan's men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
I fancied you'd return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)
I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)"
What is it that we really see when we look in a mirror?? i mean, a mirror can only show what is true, a reflection, but we are not objective when we look in it. we see so many things that migt not be true, so many lies, so many pains and hurts and fallacies. we only see what's ugly and wrong and things we don't like. we are bad at seeing beauty when it's right there before our eyes. why are we so bad i wonder.
im writing a song about the snakecharmer's child. let these fangs sink low, green blood will set you free, but the blue blood wont save you. a broken flute.
