Apailana

I’m thinking furiously about Reading and Writing.

I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story.

From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn't quite make out.

I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.

From, "The Bell Jar" by Sylvia Plath, 1963.

𝒾 𝒹𝑜𝓃’𝓉 𝓀𝓃𝑜𝓌 𝓌𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝒾𝓉 𝒾𝓈 𝓁𝒾𝓀𝑒 𝓉𝑜 𝓃𝑜𝓉 𝒽𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝒹𝑒𝑒𝓅 𝑒𝓂𝑜𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃𝓈. 𝐸𝓋𝑒𝓃 𝓌𝒽𝑒𝓃 𝒾 𝒻𝑒𝑒𝓁 𝓃𝑜𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔, 𝒾 𝒻𝑒𝑒𝓁 𝒾𝓉 𝒸𝑜𝓂𝓅𝓁𝑒𝓉𝑒𝓁𝓎.

“August rain: the best of the summer gone, and the new fall not yet born. The odd uneven time.”