I want to vomit.

I remember watching Sylvia the movie, and thinking how mentally unstable this woman is, to get so frustrated over writing, to be so overwhelmed by motherhood, to be unable to contain her own life in her own hands. Mostly, I wondered why she tore and burnt her work.

Today is the first day, since a long time, that I've spent the entire day at home, from morning to night, not stepping out at all. I have finally, after deliberating for more than a month, found a topic. It is a mammoth task ahead as I lay in bed wondering which voice to write from, the techniques I can use and later sit in front of my laptop, backspacing almost every line that I've typed. After which, I would click on Tools and Wordcount to see how many words I have typed. I walked around my room, the house, opened the fridge, ate things, came back to read whatever little has been written and I think what lousy work I have. And then, I think I want to achieve something, I have to press on, I need to push myself. So, I try to force another line out and 7 minutes later, the Internet browser is up and I am surfing around, finding nothing, but looking at everything else.

I couldn't understand Plath because wasn't writing a reflective and very liberating act? But I feel choked now. I cannot construct two sentences without cringing. I feel as though I have lost something and I am looking under the carpets, on table tops, everywhere for it, knowing that I will only find it one fine day when I'm not looking for it.