Adoring Sylvia Plath

Right now I want to sigh. I am reading the journals of Sylvia Plath and her writing is so expressive that it is almost too much to bear. A lot of talk has been said about her suicide and depression, but I think many miss her manic moments which makes her bipolar in my opinion. If I could write the way I really feel then it would be her writing I would copy. Everything I write is so bland after I put it down, and I just know that I will hate reading this too when I am done with it. I used to be an interesting person, but the last two years of hardships (not caused by marriage, other things that just happened to be in there at the same time) has pushed me down so hard I can barely breathe. I feel dry and dull and dusty and old, like a mummy. I think of John Mayer's song "Neon" and that was how my life used to be, and now I have faded away. I have nothing else new to give the world, I can't be a mother and I am not traveled. Nor do I have an interesting job. I am genetically programmed to self-destruct, at the end of everything I am having an existentialist crises. At the end of it all there is nothing but pain at the bottom of my heart. It aches so much and is overwhelming enough that I choke on it. I feel my chest heaving with the ache as though I can't breathe and I am drowning in air and spirit. The end whether one goes to heaven or hell must be more blissful than living any longer. Nothing after death would be better than the painful nothingness of living in this world without purpose. But I digress, and as I said I will probably hate what I have written in the morning.