She went searching for herself at the bottom of a bottle of a thick brown poison advertised at 40 proof, and as she traveled she’d find herself farther and farther away from her destination. Phrases from an Sylvia Plath poem were set on an infinite loop as background noise to inner monologues of failure.
Every night was a new bottle, a new search, and would always seem to end the same, lonelier at a bigger party with more people, smoking this or that in hopes of something real. Rock bottom was where she was headed but she could never hit it hard enough. She’d wake up beside a boy, under a man, a strange room, a new couch, never a step closer to end of a journey, to something real.
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Will write soon. . . Life moves so fast, I'm trying not to get dizzy as well as hold on. Cool news coming, details soon. :]
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This is really sad, yet amazingly well written as always. I had to Wikipedia Sylvia Plath. :) "...background noise to inner monologues of failure..." -- this is such good writing.
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