I have to tell you that I started writing about this earlier in the morning, say around 10 a.m. But then I grew frustrated and quit. However after spending the night at Grumpy’s with The Writers and then coming home to a time-capsule bomb, I had to persevere.
Today is Sylvia Plath’s birthday. Probably, the most famous literary suicide victim. It struck me that today was her birthday and seemed an oddly fitting way to bring my recent musings and readings about suicide to an end. I mean, it’s all just really odd coincidence isn’t it?
Then tonight over tator tots my friend who is defying a nickname at the moment started talking about how she has become obsessed with the idea of nostalgia and how it’s longing for something that never was, a longing to go back to a fantasy. I told her how I had just written a bit about being nostalgic and that AC, an I Will Dare reader, had some interesting things to say about it. Again, just weird timing. Right?
So when I got home tonight to find not one but two e-mails from people I knew back in 1994 (the very time my I was being nostalgic about) my head popped off. Seriously? How weird is that. I am not even sure if these two people even know each other. One was reading the ‘Mats book, I think the other was trolling Facebook.
Seriously folks, how much synchronicity can one person brush off? And, more importantly, what does it all mean?