Sylvia Plath saw a fig tree stretched out in front and above her, laden with fruit, her possible lives, her choices to make. It's an interesting thing, really, and if it were so simple! Each fig was this, or that; really, though, each fig, each choice, would bear another thousand, thousand trees. Choices to make, yes, and innumerable, but also innumerable the choices to never possibly be made; the choice in not choosing one thing in choosing another. She wrote of how the figs withered when she, faced with an untold harvest of ripe 'to be', could not pick but one, her arms laden with possibility, and all she could do was watch. We are placed in a world of possibility, endless, and possibility wanting nothing but to be grasped. Where Plath grasps authenticity, perhaps, is that she was able to comprehend the tree in the first place, to watch the fruit wither. An inauthentic life floats imbued with life, though quite lifelessly, and without seeing. Should you see a tree burdened with possibility, take, if you wish. Should you not take, then you did not take, and took something else in not taking, but you chose to do so.

Then again, this could all just be very, very wrong.