yes. i like sylvia plath. yes. this is incredibly cliché.
there is still a thirteen-year-old emo girl inside of me who listens to death metal and reads nothing but poetry.
deal with it.
i would like to provide you with some of the lovely things my dear friend sylvia wrote:
- let me live, love and say it well in good sentences.
- can you understand? someone, somewhere, can you understand me a little, love me a little? for all my despair, for all my ideals, for all that -- i love life. but it is hard, and i have so much -- so very much to learn.
- and when at last you find someone to whom you feel you can pour out your soul, you stop in shock at the words you utter -- they are so rusty, so ugly, so meaningless and feeble from being kept in the small cramped dark inside you so long.
- i like people too much or not at all. i've got to go down deep, to fall into people, to really know them.
- 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.
- remember, remember, this is now, and now, and now. live it, feel it, cling to it. i want to become acutely aware of all i've taken for granted.
- perhaps when we find ourselves wanting everything, it is because we are dangerously close to wanting nothing.
- 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.
there you go. pardon my lack of official citation.
bye for now.