Lining her pockets with river rocks, Virginia Woolf walked into the water in a woolen coat, wandering and waiting on death to come rushing over her, as if to her aid.
I replay deaths that preceded my life over and over again, like I’m watching for quarterback mistakes. I live in Monday mornings. I am louder than a referee.
Names and dates ebb, barely touching the shore where the reasons lie dry and futile in the sun. Plath in ‘63. Sexton in ’74. Details cling to me and bloom like barnacles, waiting for Virginia Woolf, in some form or another, to pass by.
We’re all trying for her in our digital streams of consciousness, struggling to traverse the distance separating wine from moonshine.
We are a million Mrs. Dalloways, deciding to buy the flowers ourselves.
“So long as you write what you wish to write, that is all that matters; and whether it matters for ages or only for hours, nobody can say. ”
—A Room of One’s Own, Virginia Woolf