I question my motivations at starting this, but I find myself drawn to proceed. So this is my blog. The title comes from Plath, one of my most revered idols, whom I hope to emulate in a literary sense someday, and have very nearly emulated in less desirable ways in the past.
It is very odd, coming home. I am forcibly hit by thousands of painful recollections. I had forgotten to what an intense degree I was unhappy here. The cold is bitter, and icicles form on cars, buildings, and hearts. Enchanting in its beauty, the winter is poisonous nonetheless. I drive down the streets of my former home, and everything is so unchanged that I feel almost like screaming that I have changed, and I will not fall back into this world which so nearly destroyed me once. I conquered this despair; its echo can have no hold on me. But I long for the sun nonetheless, to reassure me that the night cannot last forever.