January 20, 2011 § Leave a comment
I’ve been reading the journals of Sylvia Plath lately. And I find myself being so jealous of the way that her mind worked. Of the words that flowed out of her and made such beautiful sentences. So maybe it’s true. That people have to be sick or depressed or angry, to make anything worthwhile in this life. To make art.
Maybe you have to shock people.
You certainly have to inspire them.
So that’s what I will do instead. I will stop worrying about my own versions of art. I will inspire other people to read and write. I will be someones muse.
And that will be enough. Until I find my voice again. Until I find myself on the proverbial edge, and the only thing that will bring me down, is a piece of paper. A pen.