#The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath

There is a certain unique and strange delight about walking down an empty street alone. There is an off-focus light cast by

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I have never found anybody who could stand to accept the daily demonstrative love I feel in me, and give back as good as I give.

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I lay and cried, and began to feel again, to admit I was human, vulnerable, sensitive. I began to remember how it had

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I feel self-repressed again. The old fall disease. Where is my will-power? The Idea of a life gets in the way of my life.

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I have the choice of being constantly active and happy or introspectively passive and sad. Or I can go mad by ricocheting

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I had been withdrawing into a retreat of numbness: it is so much safer not to feel, not to let the world touch one.

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What is my life for and what am I going to do with it? I don’t know and I’m afraid. I can never read all the books I want; I

_Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath_