Very depressed today. Unable to write a thing. Menacing gods. I feel outcast on a cold star, unable to feel anything but an awful helpless numbness. I look down into the warm, earthy world. Into a nest of lovers’ beds, baby cribs, meal tables, all the solid commerce of life in this earth, and feel apart, enclosed in a wall of glass. 

My inability to lose myself in a character, a situation. Always myself, myself. 

SYLVIA PLATH, The Unabridged Journals of

My humble attempt to say at least who I am, to record like a machine of nerves the slightest impressions of my subjective and ultra-sensitive life—this was all emptied like a bucket that got knocked over, and it poured across the ground like the water of everything. I fashioned myself out of false colors, and the result is an attic made out to be an empire. My heart, out of which I spun the great events of prose I lived, seems to me today—in these pages written long ago and reread now with a different soul—like a water pump on a homestead, instinctively installed and pressed into service.

FERNANDO PESSOA
The Book of Disquiet

(Source: abbeykoczur)

My mother said: you died like any man.
How shall I age into that state of mind?
I am the ghost of an infamous suicide, 
My own blue razor rusting at my throat. 
O pardon the one who knocks for pardon at 
Your gate, father - your hound-bitch, daughter, friend. 
It was my love that did us both to death.

SYLVIA PLATH, Electra on Azalea Path