“I am afraid of getting older … I am afraid of getting married. Spare me from cooking three meals a day—spare me from the relentless cage of routine and rote. I want to be free…. I want, I want to think, to be omniscient…. I think I would like to call myself ‘The girl who wanted to be God.’”—Sylvia Plath written in 1949 at age 17 (via hateshiploveship)
I always have this need to read: books, magazines, newspapers, articles on random topics, even the backs of products and drinks when I’m bored. Reading has never been something I find difficult. I struggle everyday just to function and deal with my pain. But writing? Oh, how bittersweet.
I can physically write but it is difficult and hurts. I want to write a book or a short story or even a sentence that will evoke emotions and bring about a sense of pride in my own writing. I cannot write pieces that are fiction. Analytical bullshit, check! Historical papers about subject that are seriously pedantic and overrated, check! But fiction? The one that eludes me is sometimes the only thing that can keep me going.
“Everyone, at some point in their lives, wakes up in the middle of the night with the feeling that they are all alone in the world, and that nobody loves them now and that nobody will ever love them, and that they will never have a decent night’s sleep again and will spend their lives wandering blearily around a loveless landscape, hoping desperately that their circumstances will improve, but suspecting, in their heart of hearts, that they will remain unloved forever. The best thing to do in these circumstances is to wake somebody else up, so that they can feel this way, too.”—Lemony Snicket