Today

Days like this, I don't know what to do with myself
All day -- and all night
I wander the halls along the walls and under my breath
I say to myself
I need fuel -- to take flight --
And there's too much going on

-Fiona Apple

i remember reading the entry plath wrote in her journals when she was mired in depression and though i could not see a reproduction of the page i knew what it must look like. one huge run on sentence mess of words thrown together and forced into some hasty order. obviously type written. you could see how hard she was trying to write something decent, something good, but how the depression weighted her down. how she wanted to say everything on her mind. i could almost see the page itself stained with coffee and tears and frustration. i understood because i too have put such things to paper and am doing so now.