the life that I have does not suffice. neither in spirit nor in capacity. I want to be this, and also to be that. I want to be here, to be there, and also to be home. when 'home' is many places, all at once. I want to do this, and to do it well, but it takes away from doing all those other things, being in all those other places; I can't then do this, can I?

and this is when (or because) I have been many things, many people, in many places. my pasts fascinate me, haunt me; leave me dicontented, and incredulous. I have been the quiet, the ignored, the geek, the malleable, the popular, the snob, the misanthrope, the idiot, the hated, the despised, the loud-mouth, the mysterious, and the failure. I am also, the critic - but not the enemy, no.

I was to be somewhere the coming Sunday but I will now be there no more. was that stupid, haughty, immature? I will never know. but this I knew long before, that I would regret both being there and not. that in the larger scheme of things, it was irrelevant. I am irrelevant.

guess its finally time to read 'The Bell Jar'. or to go (more than I have been) peripatetic like 32 yr old Valeria Luiselli. I choose Luiselli over Plath; life over death.