The kindest thing literature does is remind you that your peculiar little feelings have always existed. Someone, in some century, was equally confused by love, bored by society, tired of performing, and hungry for meaning.
“And by the way, everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise. The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.”
Currently reading The Journals of Sylvia Plath (1940s–60s), and it’s haunting how deeply i relate to her inner world, as if time didn’t matter, and our emotions speak the same language.