It is so much safer not to feel, not to let the world touch me.
Before I give my body, I must give my thoughts, my mind, my dreams. And you weren’t having any of those.
I love people. Everybody. I love them, I think, as a stamp collector loves his collection. Every story, every incident, every bit of conversation is raw material for me. My love’s not impersonal yet not wholly subjective either. I would like to be everyone, a cripple, a dying man, a whore, and then come back to write about my thoughts, my emotions, as that person.
I want so obviously, so desperately to be loved, and to be capable of love.
Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath (via ariannajz)
Go out and do something. It isn’t your room that’s a prison, it’s yourself.
What did my fingers do before they held him? What did my heart do, with its love?