The first time I read Joan Didion I was in a bus heading to Manila. It was not an easy book — I cried uncontrollably and had to hide behind the curtain as I continue devouring her passages.
Tonight, I’ve picked up Sylvia Plath. I’d go either with her unabridged journal or Bell Jar. These are not easy read, yes, but it’s comforting to know that someone else have been through whatever it is you are currently going through, and despite their clattered and lost pieces — limbs and aspirations — they’ve managed to look life in the face. And that, in itself, is already a victory. Staying alive and making meaning.
You get what I mean? The guarantee that we’re not alone — not really, not at all — is soothing. We’re the lost souls, hovering restlessly in the fog, seeking for a home to land. And our definition of home resides greatly in its temporal dimension.