Wherever I sat — on the deck of a ship or at a street café in Paris or Bangkok — I would be sitting under the… — Sylvia Plath
Wherever I sat — on the deck of a ship or at a street café in Paris or Bangkok — I would be sitting under the same glass bell jar, stewing in my own sour air.
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There ought, I thought, to be a ritual for being born twice - patched, retreaded and approved for the road.
How did I know that someday — at college, in Europe, somewhere, anywhere — the bell jar, with its stifling distortions, wouldn’t descend again?
I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart: I am, I am, I am.
