The Blog.

Soliloquy Of The Solipsist.

- Sylvia Plath

I?

I walk alone;

The midnight street

Spins itself from under my feet;

When my eyes shut

These dreaming houses all snuff out;

Through a whim of mine

Over gables the moon's celestial onion

Hangs high.

I

Make houses shrink

And trees diminish

By going far; my look's leash

Dangles the puppet-people

Who, unaware how they dwindle,

Laugh, kiss, get drunk,

Nor guess that if I choose to blink

They die.

I

When in good humour,

Give grass it's green

Blazon sky blue, and endow the sun

With gold;

Yet, in my wintriest moods, I hold

Absolute power

To boycott any colour and forbid any flower

To be.

I

Know you appear

Vivid at my side,

Denying you sprang out of my head,

Claiming you feel

Love fiery enough to prove flesh real,

Though it's quite clear

All your beauty, all your wit, is a gift, my dear

From me.

There is a moth in my room. It thinks my lamp is the moon. It's not. It's my lamp. It flutters; gets confused about the fact that its soft head hits something hard before it reaches the light. No questions asked. It makes a U shape in the sky and charges back. It's only tiny, but it flew so hard it tapped against the glass then fell. I don't think it wants the moon anymore. Not like a mouse would if it was made of cheese.