The Bell Jar descends again...
MOOD: I am super happy and this post isn't mood it's just me trying to describe a part of my day in an exaggerated Sylvia Plath style.
The peals of an alarm bell pierced my conciousness and once again, the heavy oppression of stale morning air recycled by the ancient air-conditioner pressed against my face. It felt claustrophobic and I wanted to scream but I was far too tired.
Another morning of studying and studying of history, of economic theory, of mathematical proofs proffered no respite from the punishing reality that awaited, hunched and ready to spring like a gargoyle-goblin hiding in the murky shadows. I felt the noose of justice hang heavily upon my frail neck and indeed it weighed far heavier upon my heart. Grounded yet again.
The uniform strangled my shoulders and the I could feel the stifling heat of the bell jar again slowly, as it descended around me, the heat of my own madness...
I clenched a fist and brought my hands back and punched through the glass. I wasn't going to go mad. Absolutely not. This was my fight against the bell jar, where I had sat stewing in the noxious fumes of insecurity and anxiety.
Never again, I thought, nursing my fist. It was good to break patterns.
Until I noticed a shadow on my thighs. And then I realised I was still sitting under a bigger bell jar.
Another morning of studying and studying of history, of economic theory, of mathematical proofs proffered no respite from the punishing reality that awaited, hunched and ready to spring like a gargoyle-goblin hiding in the murky shadows. I felt the noose of justice hang heavily upon my frail neck and indeed it weighed far heavier upon my heart. Grounded yet again.
The uniform strangled my shoulders and the I could feel the stifling heat of the bell jar again slowly, as it descended around me, the heat of my own madness...
I clenched a fist and brought my hands back and punched through the glass. I wasn't going to go mad. Absolutely not. This was my fight against the bell jar, where I had sat stewing in the noxious fumes of insecurity and anxiety.
Never again, I thought, nursing my fist. It was good to break patterns.
Until I noticed a shadow on my thighs. And then I realised I was still sitting under a bigger bell jar.
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