Path

It reads path, but my brain said Plath. Here goes.

A friend once wrote “The internet is a cesspool of hate, bigotry, outdated hot takes, the occasional decent meme, and deluded Federer fans”. Replace Federer with any famous person of your choice, and you would have a spot-on definition of twitter, If Dante’s hell ever got an update, I’m sure there’s a circle where you’re condemned to scrolling twitter until kingdom come.

The path to hell is paved with good intentions- and so I regularly doomscroll for, you know, quick updates, check who’s getting cancelled today and occasionally speak into the internet void. Between all that, one might find a few morsels of, well, un-hellish stuff. One such find is Sylvia Plath's Food Diary (@whatsylviaate).

I’ve read the bell jar and I’ve read about Sylvia Plath and I’ve read some of her letters and some of her poems and I’ve felt this awful yearning to sit in her company for she seemed to understand the tragedy of being and the tragedy of girlhood. And apparently, she and I seem to experience food in similar ways.

I am writing this on a Sunday. I woke up and found no reason to remain awake. I slept so late, I ate breakfast at high tea. In my pajamas.

I felt this way last night. I helped myself to some tea.

Me, eating apples once in 6 months and rediscovering my love for the fruit. I will eat four of them in a day, and then our love shall collect dust until the seasons turn and I am presented with an apple.

I too, would be overjoyed at finding myself presented with a hill of potatoes- and speak like an Irish farmer in the Great Famine

I too, would make note

Be right back, fetching the spirits.