writing

i just need a space to be pretentious

[quotemadness]

“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 life. And I am horribly limited.”

— Sylvia Plath

[ecstasticdisasters]

“So much working, reading, thinking, living to do. A lifetime is not long enough.”

Sylvia Plath ~ The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath

[goodreadss]

“The Idea of a life gets in the way of my life.”

— Sylvia Plath

[quotespile]

“Yes, I was infatuated with you: I am still. No one has ever heightened such a keen capacity of physical sensation in me. I cut you out because I couldn’t stand being a passing fancy. Before I give my body, I must give my thoughts, my mind, my dreams. And you weren’t having any of those.”

— Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

“To keep on learning and thinking and feeling even if it hurts like hell.”

— Sylvia Plath, from a letter to Gordon Lameyer written c. April 1954

[quotemadness]

“I am jealous of those who think more deeply, who write better, who draw better, who look better, who live better, who love better than I.”

— Sylvia Plath

[xshayarsha]

“Can you understand? Someone, somewhere, can you understand me a little, love me a little?”

— Sylvia Plath, from The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath; July 1950 - July 1953.

[lovingsylvia]

“I know I’ll always think of you with something like hurt and nostalgia—”

— The Letters Of Sylvia Plath Volume I: 1940–1956, from a letter to Ann Davdiow-Goodman, written 1951

[jazbaaati]

“I deserve a year, two years, to live my own self into being.”

- Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath.

[virgin-martyr]

“I am alone in my room, between two worlds.”

— Sylvia Plath, November 1950; The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath

[stephenstilwell-deactivated2021]

“You’re allowed to focus on yourself. Read a book without feeling guilty. Turn up your favorite song. Every day is yours.”

s.s. (stephenstilwell)

[bebbletea]

Inktober. Day 1//Poisonous

Day 1. Poisonous.

It’s been hard to get out of bed lately. Most days I remain in the darkness of my room as dust gathers on the windowsill behind drawn curtains. My entire being feels weighed down, paralyzed even, like the prospect of doing anything is too much for my limbs to bear. The weak beat of my heart and the lethargic crawl of my blood through my veins seem to be all my body can manage. It feels like there is lead in my bloodstream so all I do is lie in bed, surrounded by the echo of my thoughts.

I start to ask myself questions.

Like how it is possible to feel so heavy yet so hollow at the same time. And what I am doing with my life. And why I stopped replying to texts. And whether the lead in my veins is slowly killing me. I wish it would stop taking it’s time.

Where is it even coming from?

There’s no lead in the water here, so it can’t be from that. I prefer drinking wine anyways. But water doesn’t turn into wine and miracles don’t exist, so in the evenings I usually drag my body to the corner store and buy my own miracle in a bottle. I had a thing for DIY before I did nothing but stare at the wall and contemplate all day. Some days I go ‘Fuck the miracle metaphor’ and buy something stronger than wine.

Why, you ask?

I stop asking myself questions when I drink. I just feel. The tickle on my tongue. The burn in my throat. The tingle of my fingers. The alcohol displaces the lead and lifts the heaviness from my bones. I don’t mind if the world sways as long as my thoughts drift away. For a few hours the tightness of my chest and emptiness of my stomach dissipate. I float. I dream.

I don’t ask questions.

The lightness never lasts. Whether drinks or pills or cigarettes, I always come crashing down to bleak reality. Like water rushing into a sinking ship, my head fills with thoughts and doubts and worries and my body grows heavy again. Lead and guilt. I think if there was lead in the water I would drink it. I think if I had lead bullets I would eat them.

“How are you?”

I stumble into an old friend I haven’t seen in months on one of my late night corner store runs. It’s a ‘something-stronger-than-wine’ kind of night. We go on a walk and he asks that question out of the blue. And it’s funny. All this time I’ve been asking myself questions, and now that somebody asks me something, I don’t know how to answer. There’s just too much to say and it’s all too negative and can’t you tell from looking at me?

Somewhere between the anger of being abandoned and the guilt of knowing it’s my fault for never responding and the shame of having bad habits and worse thoughts, my own questions slip out with a desperation that can only come from someone who feels like they have nothing left. Nothing but questions.

“When did you stop calling?” When you stopped picking up.

“Why am I alive?” No reason for that.

“Will I always feel this awful?” You will.

“How do I stop hurting?” You know how.

The answers are my own. I want him to tell me I’m wrong and I want him to have all the answers, but all he says is.

“I’m sorry, I have not been there for you. I can tell you are in pain. I’ll do better from now on”

And then he pulls me into a hug and the world sways. The squeeze of his arms and warmth of his chest and the beat of his heart are enough to answer all my questions. I float and I dream and I don’t crash back down.

I do not have all the answers. I doubt anyone ever will. But I know this. I am heavy from all the questions I have and hollow from the lack of answers, some of which I won’t ever be able to get. I will not know what I’m doing with my life unless I start doing something. I can be the one to take the lead and text first sometimes. And there is no lead in my bloodstream, just sadness and loneliness and uncertainty and fear. I won’t let them kill me.

I replay a question asked under dingy streetlights in front of a 24/7 corner store. “Would you like to meet me at the neighbourhood park tomorrow by the swings?” I think I might know the answer to lighten the load.

The next morning, I get out of bed. I dust the windowsill and open the curtains. I walk past the corner store, down the street and into the neighbourhood park. My limbs are laden, but I press onwards.

He’s by the swings like he said he would be. He waves and as I raise my arm to wave back, I notice it feels lighter than it has in months.

It took me a year to realise that you can’t fight poison with poison. It took me even longer to realise that I don’t have to fight alone.

I want to ask him, “Why are you doing this for me?”, but I decided I would stop asking questions like that.

Instead I say, “Thank you for coming. I’m glad you’re here. Can you help me?”

And that question becomes my antidote.

[the-book-diaries]

“Perhaps one did not want to be loved so much as to be understood.”

— George Orwell, 1984

[rupikaur]

your resilience is everything.

[hannahz3]

Despite 🌻

[rupikaur]

rupi kaur, milk and honey

[healerorkiller]