the infection of love.

Hi there, good people of the blogging universe. :) I'm coming to you at 11:37pm on a Wednesday night. A school night. But I'm not rebelling, I promise, and I'm going to hop back on the sleeping-bandwagon tomorrow night, but earlier tonight I had literally a little over a cup of diet coke at a restaurant and now… so much energy. Can't sleep. But it's the story of my life, and I'm not going to dwell on it. I'll simply use this leftover energy to do something productive. Such as explore a poem by Anne Sexton.


Wanting to Die, a poem by Anne Sexton, was written to explain why poets, people, anyone like herself (and her friend Sylvia Plath) would want to kill themselves. Keep in mind, this isn't my opinion, nor is it any general truth, just her opinion, I suppose. You can read it here if you want, I don't wanna poem overload, but I just wanted to kind of… dwell on the last line. "and the love, whatever it was, an infection." Just that idea, of love being an infection, is just so beautiful, in a heartwrenching way. Love, it can spread and it can hurt and it can take you down. It's infectious.


My friend pointed out this line after we saw Inception today and there was the line about an idea being a parasite, the most resilient of them. Because we're, uh, nerdy, I whipped out the poem book we've been looking at lately (it's her's) and read that poem and that line just… I don't know. I had just come out of the movie about an hour ago, but it just struck a nerve. I wasn't emotional or anything, not really at that part of the conversation, but the idea of these things, that seem innocent enough, taking over your mind and your body and everything… it's fascinating.


To lighten the mood a little bit, I'll talk about myself a little bit. I'm not sure what's been going on with me lately, to be honest, I've been reliving the past a lot, and spending every free moment (which, alas, are few) either watching Parenthood (I am newly obsessed with this show. guys, you have to watch it. please) or reading old conversations/poems/journal entries/notes, anything from 8th grade. I feel like I just need to figure out that person I was then. Why I did the things I did and what I thought and when things fell apart and how I put them back together and… it's crazy. The lines between 8th grade and the present are starting to blur when characters from then and now collide. It's super weird.


Wow… that didn't really lighten the mood, did it? Oh well. I hope this entry didn't sound bleak, that wasn't my intention at all. In fact, I've been good lately. A warm, familiar sort of happiness. Not a crap-is-this-gonna-get-yanked-away kind of happiness but one that feels secure. I don't know. I like it. How are YOU guys?