I really should stop this Ophelia frenzy and start writing about something else but this theme simply keeps coming to my mind. Maybe I should write about death itself. Death. I am thinking about this poem by Emily Dickenson. It goes roughly like this “Because I cannot stop for death, it kindly stopped for me.” I wonder how she was feeling when she wrote down that passage. Was she expecting death in peace? Another dead woman comes to my mind. Sylvia Plath. I cannot stop thinking about her “Lady Lazarus.” A woman with 9 lives, like a cat, how remarkable! But I am sure she’d rather stay dead than going on this unbearable Wiederkehr of resurrection. Oh was her Daddy a Nazi? But a vampire figure most definitely. Vampire. The undead. Nazism is not dead yet, it resurrects itself with neo-Nazism. And this father-daughter complex is also undead. I have a similar complex with my dad too. I always think I am letting him down. And it’s my original sin that I was born a girl. I am the unwanted daughter. My mum already gave birth to my older sister so why was I not born a boy? If I were then everyone in the Chang family would be happy. The balcony wind is freezing my fingers but I have to keep on writing. The time is up. Thanks for the timely beep of the stopwatch saving me from this agony. Isn’t writing supposed to be enjoyable? But people say the truly good works are completed in agony. Wait, why am I still writing?
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