I am afraid. I am not solid, but hollow. I feel behind my eyes a numb, paralyzed cavern, a pit of hell, a mimicking nothingness… I want to kill myself, to escape from responsibility, to crawl back abjectly into the womb. I do not know who I am, where I am going - and I am the one who has to decide the answers to these hideous questions… There is nowhere to go - not home, where I would blubber and cry, a grotesque fool, into my mother’s skirts—not to men, where I want more than ever their stern, final, paternal directive…
“
| — | Sylvia Plath (via sickly-thin) |
