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#sylvia plath
derangedrhythms · 5 hours ago
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Sylvia Plath, Ariel; from 'Stings'
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luckystarinsky · 6 hours ago
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"A university degree, four books & hundreds of articles and i stil make mistakes when reading,
You wrote me "Good morning" & i read it as "I love you"
-Mahmoud Darwish
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pulmunduk · 7 hours ago
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Dear Finn,
We were never promised happiness. It's futile to find it in a place where we were cursed. But surely, we were promised hope. So let me hope for a tomorrow where you & I turns into a we.
Yours,
Pulmunduk.
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beautifulwords · 9 hours ago
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It’s a hell of a responsibility to be yourself. It’s much easier to be somebody else or nobody at all.
Sylvia Plath
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tamsoj · 11 hours ago
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the slime of all my yesterdays rots in the hollow of my skull
Sylvia Plath, from The Collected Poems, Juvenilia, “April 18”
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bibliophilequotes · 12 hours ago
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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 physcial experience possible in my life. And I am horribly limited.
SYLVIA PLATH || The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath (1982)
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dancingwither · 12 hours ago
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Para que serve minha vida e o que vou fazer com ela? Não sei e sinto medo. Não posso ler todos os livros que quero; não posso ser todas as pessoas que quero e viver todas as vidas que quero. E por que eu quero? Quero viver e sentir as nuances, os tons e as variações das experiências físicas e mentais possíveis de minha existência. E sou terrivelmente limitada. (…) Tenho muita vida pela frente, mas inexplicadamente sinto-me triste e fraca. No fundo, talvez se possa localizar tal sentimento em meu desagrado por ter de escolher entre alternativas. Talvez por isso queira ser todos – assim, ninguém poderá me culpar por eu ser eu. Assim, não precisarei assumir a responsabilidade pelo desenvolvimento do meu caráter e de minha filosofia.
Eis a fuga pra loucura…
Sylvia Plath
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xrinsohma · 13 hours ago
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5/15/2021
My mom surprised with this beautiful vase of flowers, chocolate, and a giftcard for our local bookstore, to celebrate finals week coming to an end.
TW (mental illness):
It feels so strange to say I've graduated from grad school. It feels like I blinked and 2 years flew by. Earning my master's degree wasn't easy. The academic side was fine, for the most part; but, everything else that has been going on for the past two years greatly impacted my grad school experience. I had a lot of lows. My dad passed away. PTSD from previous trauma reared its ugly head, again. My mental health plummeted to a terrifying place. My treatment team and I spent a year figuring out which medications would be best for treating my mental illness. When I questioned if grad school was worth it, or how I was going to get through school and that period of suffering, I remembered how 17 year old me felt 7 years ago.
7 years ago my plans for college, all of the work I put into remaining on the honors list for years, and the painstaking efforts I made to be perfect, went up in smoke when I found myself in a treatment center for eating disorders. I could feel myself sinking into the floor during the intial appointment. I felt like a failure when I had to transfer from my dream college, to a college close to home because I needed to be looked after. I hated my body and brain for not functioning like they used to. Being diagnosed with an illness that I will have to live with for the rest of my life was devastating and infuriating. Being subjected to something that caused me to no longer feel safe in my body - to feel like I had lost my body for 5 years, was a very lonely period of suffering. There were days when I couldn't eat, or get up and go to class. There were a lot of tears, breakdowns, and bursts of anger. However, I'm glad that I attended college, I'm so grateful that I'm in a privileged position that allowed me to go to undergraduate and graduate school, without having to worry about the cost. I'm grateful for the amazing professors I've met, the classmates who have become wonderful friends, and for the experiences that have helped me become the person who I am today.
I found a lot of comfort in reading and writing. Jane Eyre and The Bell Jar are novels that will always hold a special place in my heart. While I was receiving treatment for my ED I read both of them for the first time. I greatly sympathized with Jane's and Esther's suffering and loneliness. They made me feel less alone. I felt understood.
If you're still in school and you're struggling with your health, trauma, identity, etc., please know that you aren't alone. I know it's a bit of a cliché, but things truly do get better
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perfeqt · 16 hours ago
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Please don’t expect me to always be good and kind and loving. There are times when I will be cold and thoughtless and hard to understand.
Sylvia Plath
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luckystarinsky · 18 hours ago
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What if you knew you'd be the last
to touch someone?
you might take care to touch that palm,
along the life line's crease.
What would people look like
if we could see them as they are,
soaked in honey, stung and swollen,
reckless, pinned against time?
Ellen Bass, If You Knew.
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derangedrhythms · a day ago
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Let idiots / Reel giddy in bedlam spring:
Sylvia Plath, The Colossus & Other Poems; from ‘Spinster’
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voyagedemai · a day ago
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“If the moon smiled, she would resemble you. You leave the same impression Of something beautiful, but annihilating.”
-Sylvia Plath ‘The Rival’
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justthishumanheart · a day ago
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From Water-Tower Hill to the brick prison The shingle booms, bickering under The sea's collapse. Snowcakes break and welter. This year The gritted wave leaps The seawall and drops onto a bier Of quahog chips, Leaving a salty mash of ice to whiten In my grandmother's sand yard. She is dead, Whose laundry snapped and froze here, who Kept house against What the sluttish, rutted sea could do. Squall waves once danced Ship timbers in through the cellar window; A thresh-tailed, lanced Shark littered in the geranium bed — Such collusion of mulish elements She wore her broom straws to the nub. Twenty years out Of her hand, the house still hugs in each drab Stucco socket The purple egg-stones: from Great Head's knob To the filled-in Gut The sea in its cold gizzard ground those rounds. Nobody wintering now behind The planked-up windows where she set Her wheat loaves And apple cakes to cool. What is it Survives, grieves So, battered, obstinate spit Of gravel? The waves' Spewed relics clicker masses in the wind, Grey waves the stub-necked eiders ride. A labor of love, and that labor lost. Steadily the sea Eats at Point Shirley. She died blessed, And I come by Bones, only bones, pawed and tossed, A dog-faced sea. The sun sinks under Boston, bloody red. I would get from these dry-papped stones The milk your love instilled in them. The black ducks dive. And though your graciousness might stream, And I contrive, Grandmother, stones are nothing of home To that spumiest dove. Against both bar and tower the black sea runs.
—Sylvia Plath, Point Shirley
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