thoughts

reading the bell jar was interesting. I was ready to be amazed by the intellect of sylvia plath but found myself confused at how she kept branching off from what was happening at one point into other points in her memory. I didn't understand the point of doing that, or the significance. it made me feel stupid and inadequate at understanding, interpreting or analysing literature. sometimes I feel like I understand. I can't translate what I feel for the work into words and I'm not sure that I really do after all. I like literature, and it sucks when you can't understand something you like.

I felt a little like the girl in the book. A race horse without a track. Like the guy who got to college on a football scholarship that was faced with wallstreet and a business suit and had his field taken away. All he'd have left was his old dusty trophy to remind him of the time of his life when he was doing something he was brilliant at. history. I recognised that feeling. something I expect I'd feel eventually. I see it coming so clearly I already know what it will feel like; what it tastes like.

It makes me wonder what all this is for. getting on the train and walking around looking for things to buy with money I earned dispassionately.

I'm afraid that being a lawyer will be that. better pay of course but absolutely uninspiring. and the money can only keep you going so far before you snap with frustration at how you really don't care about your job, and you wish you were doing something you really love. Like all the other people out there whom you always hear about who have fun at their work or receive validation from it and get good pay.

I'm more afraid that there isn't such a job. that in the end, when you finally get the chance to live all your sugar coated visions of the perfect job, you'll realise it's really just a pill for you to swallow to cure you of illusions. and you'll be brought smack back to reality like hitting a concrete sidewalk after floating in the clouds; you'll realise that all jobs suck.

During dinner. at the bust stop. I wondered whether everything was pointless and my eyes began to sting. And I was sure I would explode or snap like balsa wood if I didn't get something warm and sweet and comforting into my stomach. maybe I'm falling sick.