So, I am lying down on this piece of blanket under the perfect shade. That shade that hits the right body parts while still allowing the sun to soak me up. Beneath are these beautiful blades of grass, looking lush (in Siannise’s {{Love Island}} accent) so green you’d extract an amazing natural dark light green hair dye from it. Next to me, is a regular fine black printed hardcover book. It is beside me waiting to be salivated on as I focus on the lush grass. Flipping its pages is an act of serenity. At this point, I have already read one sentence. I repeat a part of that sentence six times before realizing I have gone over that part six times, so I go back and read the sentence again so I can go on and read the rest. Then I realize I do not know what these combination of letters are trying to tell me. I stare into the abyss for a hot minute.
It goes like this:
I talked with one of them, and she was bored with yachts and bored with flying around in aeroplanes and bored with skiing in Switzerland at Christmas and bored with the men in Brazil. skiing in Switzerland at Christmas and bored with the men in Brazil. skiing in Switzerland at Christmas and bored with the men in Brazil. skiing in Switzerland at Christmas and bored with the men in Brazil. skiing in Switzerland at Christmas and bored with the men in Brazil. skiing in Switzerland at Christmas and bored with the men in Brazil. skiing in Switzerland at Christmas and bored with the men in Brazil. I talked with one of them, and she was bored with yachts and bored with flying around in aeroplanes and bored with skiing in Switzerland at Christmas and bored with the men in Brazil.Excerpt from the Bell Jar, by Sylvia Plath
A breeze hits me, and suddenly my hand feels this piece of paper beneath it calling out. I quickly go back to the sentence I left. You know the usual, let me start where I left it at. I interestingly read that last sentence heartily then move on to the next. I repeat that sentence, aloud this time, just to connect it to the previous one. Then I proudly (subconsciously or consciously who knows) repeat the last part of it seven times.
I talked with one of them, and she was bored with yachts and bored with flying around in aeroplanes and bored with skiing in Switzerland at Christmas and bored with the men in Brazil.Girls like that make me sick. make me sick. make me sick. make me sick. make me sick. make me sick. make me sick. make me sick.Excerpt from The Bell Jar, by Sylvia Plath
“Are we going to get to a third sentence today?” , the book mumbles. I stop, fold the top of that page we will pick it up “tomorrow”. I gently give that fine ass print a break. No, I don’t go back and stare at the lush green around.
With Love from my keyboard!
J.A.M: Just a Minute 