At the age of 17, when I had a sudden outburst of accumulated feelings and emotions and a long period of intended seclusion, I ignored it as a result of my switching schools. The past few months had been particularly difficult for me, so when I decided to read The Bell Jar again, I knew it wasn’t just to re-read the book, but to find answers, words and expressions that I had failed to find myself. I swore then that I could have read her over and over again. I had first read her honest poetry when I was a literature student in college. The Bell Jar had stirred me when I had read it for the first time a year ago, but this time, it had a different meaning for me. I had read it once and yet I pushed myself to pick it up again, once again ignoring the unread stack of books. I stopped when I saw her, Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar. I moved my fingers across the second row of books. As a lover of literature, I love collecting and hoarding books whenever something exclusive catches my eye. I had three unread books piled up in front of me.
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