Sylvia

"I am, I am, I am," she said over and over again, in novels and poems and journals. But she conceded that it was only the heart's conceit. And of course, there is more than mere being. There was the desire to be a certain way or to change the way she was, or to be all things that confuted her. And so one day she stuck her head into the oven and was gone. Sort of. She lingers still.

Suicide. It is the back door, an exit by which we can leave behind once and for all what we think of as our failures as they begin to pile up. Too many at one time and the psyche begins to break.

Ego.

"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."

Emotion.

"How frail the human heart must be - a mirrored pool of thought."

Intellect.

"Is there no way out of the mind?"

Judgement.

"I want to be important. By being different. And these girls are all the same."

Creativity.

"I must be lean & write & make worlds beside this to live in."

It will all drive you mad. But often, it comes down to one thing.

"Kiss me and you will see how important I am."

Yes, of course. In the end, we are weak, and we all want saving.