"Always, I grab it, the writing, hold it to me, defend, defend, against the flux, the sameness of faces".
Yesterday was Sylvia Plath's birthday. That I could have walked with her, talked with her, or known her in the slightest would've been the greatest joy. Countless women have read her work and identified, myself included. Whether it's because she describes the meat of female humanity and madness to such a realistic extent, or because we're relieved to find we're not the only ones suffering or rejoicing in such ways (which is true; we're not the first and won't be the last)...whatever the reason, her words have a deep place in my heart. Happy belated my dear.
"If I sit still and don't do anything, the world goes on beating like a slack drum, without meaning. We must be moving, working, making dreams to run toward; the poverty of life without dreams is too horrible to imagine: it is the kind of madness which is worst: the kind with fancies and hallucinations would be a Bosch-ish relief".
-The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath