"I felt my lungs inflate with the onrush of scenery — air, mountains, trees, people. I thought, "This is what it is to be happy. - Sylvia Plath

My world falls apart, crumbles, “The centre cannot hold.” There is no integrating force, only the naked fear, the urge of self-preservation. I am afraid. I am not solid, but hollow. I feel behind my eyes a numb, paralysed cavern, a pit of hell, a mimicking nothingness. I never thought. I never wrote, I never suffered. I want to kill myself, to escape from responsibility, to crawl back abjectly into the womb. I do not know who I am, where I am going — and I am the one who has to decide the answers to these hideous questions. I long for a noble escape from freedom — I am weak, tired, in revolt from the strong constructive humanitarian faith which presupposes a healthy, active intellect and will. There is nowhere to go.

It seemed silly to wash one day when I would only have to wash again the next.

It made me tired just to think of it.

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)