MIND: Rusted

And when at last you find someone to whom you feel you can pour out your soul, you stop in shock at the words you utter— they are so rusty, so ugly, so meaningless and feeble from being kept in the small cramped dark inside you so long.

// Sylvia Plath

MIND: Fleeting

You know, once in a while you have a glimpse of complete happiness with someone you love fully for a brief while – and then it passes, and you are sad, yet afraid somehow that if you ever met again, the perfect illusion would be dispelled and the dream gone.

// Sylvia Plath

MIND: Obscurity

I sometimes wish that I had been born in some obscure corner of the world… In Iceland, perhaps, or some South Sea Island, where one could live a normal life without being part of the great insane world struggles.

// Sylvia Plath

MIND: Budding

In other words, this is a period of sterility emotionally. Mentally, it is a fertilization of the soil in my mind… Who knows what may bloom in the fruitful season later on? Enough symbolism. I am happy, which is strange, as I realize myself socially and emotionally unfulfilled.

// Sylvia Plath

MIND: Heatwave

The heat has gone to my head, mother. I indulge, I overindulge. There is nothing delicate about it. I am being compulsive, I depress myself. I hate need but I need to feel needed. I need to feel indispensable. Utterly, explicitly, and ferociously indispensable.

// Sylvia Plath

MIND: Doubts

Can I write? Will I write if I practice enough? How much should I sacrifice to writing anyway, before I find out if I’m any good? Above all, CAN A SELFISH EGOCENTRIC JEALOUS AND UNIMAGINATIVE FEMALE WRITE A DAMN THING WORTHWHILE?

// Sylvia Plath

MIND: Limits

I can never read all the books I want; I can never be all the people I want and live all the lives I want. I can never train myself in all the skills I want. And why do I want? I want to live and feel all the shades, tones and variations of mental and physical experience possible in my life. And I am horribly limited.

// Sylvia Plath