There is hope, but not for us.
Please waste your time on me.
I’m not totally mad at you. I’m just sad. You’re all locked up in that little world of yours, and when I try knocking on the door, you just sort of look up for a second and go right back inside.
Sylvia Plath, Mad Girl’s Love Song
I was by myself for a pretty long time. I needed to do that. I think everyone that I know has wanted to do that or needed to do that at some point. I think when you spend enough time when it’s quiet around you and you don’t open your mouth for three or four days, there’s parts of your brain that can kind of rest. I think when we’re out in the world and we have to talk to people, we edit ourselves. You know, we have to like, act a little bit. As honest as we may be as humans, when we’re out here, we’re all kind of wearing mirrors on our faces. You know, constantly reacting to how to react to the people around you. And I think when you’re alone for a long enough time, you can feel a lot more peace.
…I hunt for the will
that will let me let you go.
There comes that phase in life when, tired of losing, you decide to stop losing, then continue losing.
Not a flat. Not an apartment in back. Not a man’s house. Not a daddy’s. A house all my own. With my porch and my pillow, my pretty purple petunias. My books and my stories. My two shoes waiting beside the bed. Nobody to shake a stick at. Nobody’s garbage to pick up after.
Only a house quiet as snow, a space for myself to go, clean as paper before the poem.
He who works with his hands is a laborer.
He who works with his hands and his head is a craftsman.
He who works with his hands and his head and his heart is an artist.
Man is least himself when he talks in his own persona. Give him a mask and he will tell you the truth.
I just hope that one day—preferably when we’re both blind drunk—we can talk about it.
I can’t think of anything more perfect than something that you thought was gone returning.
You’re seeking something, but at the same time, you are running away for all you’re worth.
“Instead I will say, “Take me to your trees. Take me to your breakfasts, your sunsets, your bad dreams, your shoes, your nouns. Take me to your fingers; take me to your deaths.” These are worth it. These are what I have come for.”
—Margaret Atwood, In Other Worlds: SF and the Human Imagination