26 december

Rain has liquidated the frivolous pink frosting of Christmas tinsel into icy wet drips from windowsills; fresh shocks of lightning split the sky pink and orange and silver, swiveling liquidly and frighteningly like the slick hard inside of a clam. The black trees stand abashedly spindly, filtering the grey non-light into small houndstooth patterns on the porches: we still have not mailed out our Christmas cards.

Always the same heavy sky, the same oppressively gunmetal-grey shards of air pressing into my skin. banality banality banality. the days melt into each other and slide greasily away in one after another bloody egg-yolk sunrise. has it only been two days since i so happily (and dementedly) effervesced? scrambling the sun for breakfast and never looking twice--? which leads me to believe: i cannot simultaneously be pensive and be happy. says sylvia plath: "I have the choice of being constantly active and happy or introspectively passive and sad. Or I can go mad by ricocheting in between."

There must be some sort of balance; some sort of superimposing myself over layers and layers of life, like translucent baklava. i am neither taylor swift nor sylvia plath nor patsy cline nor fully alyssa duck-- who are you, silly girl, to be so many people at once? (again, to quote SP: "a passionate, fragmentary girl"?)