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.
Sylvia Plath (via kingsrow)
I’ve been trying to figure out who I am. I can tell you that when I stare at a room long enough, I’m nauseated at how disjointed everything looks - like a dollhouse with ugly furniture. I can tell you that I’ve been so tired lately, no matter how much sleep I get. There are thousands of worlds, universes even, inside of my mind, but I can’t tell you the names of the planets and the galaxies. I’m thinking of how I am, and I’m unsure of what the answer is. I’ve gotten terrible at articulating my thoughts, it seems. My words aren’t flowing. They’re stuck. I’m in a rut. These are my thoughts, but why do they feel so foreign? Where have I gone? I’ve hidden myself in a labyrinth with no end, but I wouldn’t be able to answer you if you asked me what I was hiding from. There are no monsters in my kingdom, but I still tremble in my dreams. If you’ve figured me out, or if you’ve found me, please let me know.
Unknown (via faeriepetals)
(Source: slekes)
