Not Me, Not I

Conversation Among The Ruins

Rooted to your black look, the play turned tragic:

Which such blight wrought on our bankrupt estate,

What ceremony of words can patch the havoc?

- Sylvia Plath



I know it's Valentine's Day and the content of this entry is indelicately laced with ominous darkness. This isn't
reflective of my mood nor my intention to subdue Valentine's celebrations in all its heady and sublime glory. But my alter ego Sylvia Plath dominates my online persona, like an addiction strung out for black - resistance is futile

They say today is the most romantic day of the year, wise men say only fools rush in. Love is a shiny beacon -
beckoning, teasing the desires of our hearts and on Valentine's Day, women (and some men too) wait in eager 
anticipation for the manifestation of love. Because if love eludes even the most romantic day of the year, what
hope is there for the believers of the remaining cupid-less days?

I don't believe love is an elusive being, hibernating all year round for an annual grand reveal. Nor do I believe that
Valentine's Day is the most romantic day of the year - that's marketing puffery hung proudly in the hall of fame of commercialisation. In marketing, we create desire and we spoon feed you the solution.

Is it weak then, to desire explicit displays of love and affection on Valentine's Day? I think not - sometimes
there's no rhyme or reason for the way we feel and an army of logic cannot eliminate the restless strive to fulfil
the wishes of our Freudian super egos.

Happy Valentine's Day =)