Decisions, decisions.

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 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.

— Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

I am not this spectacular Plath fan, but I like her well enough. And, at this particular moment and in this specific context, I like her a whole lot. Sylvia Plath brings depth to my frantic emotions. In her words, my thoughts somehow become nobler. They aren’t just ridiculous insecurities or frightened anxieties– well, actually maybe they are. But Sylvia Plath articulates them so well that my rattled brain, ripe with the nervousness and self-doubt of changing times, can finally feel some sense of relief. I am not alone!

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