| to dare (verb) | /oze/
I am guilty of obsessively exploring the same topics on my blog: that constant ricochet between mania and despair, and the self-directed anger that comes with it. Afterall, I’ve brought this all upon myself through my recklessness, haven’t I? But then I’ve always been that way with my writing: ravenously devouring topics in phases until I’ve gorged myself for months at a time. At 19, it was that timeless struggle to reconcile the desires of the body and the mind, that old Renaissance preoccupation.
Now I’ve found myself buried in The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T.S. Eliot.
Three words to end it all: Do I dare?
Tumbling down hillsides, teetering on clifftops, screaming, yearning, grasping, embracing, wasting, I continue dancing on the edge. Funny how nothing ever really seems to change.
Have I, too, measured my life in coffeespoons? No, my nightmare evenings bleed to dawn, and I cannot measure that rosy fog.
But, yes, I have known the arms already, known them all. The warm embrace, the naked wrists.
For all my endless grasping, I should have been a pair of ragged claws…
Three words to say it all: Stupid, stupid girl.