On Happiness #41

"And there is the fallacy of existence: the idea that one would be happy forever and aye with a given situation or series of accomplishments. Why did Virginia Woolf commit suicide? Or Sara Teasdale—or the other brilliant women—neurotic? Was their writing sublimation (oh horrible word) of deep, basic desires? If only I knew. If only I knew how high I could set my goals, my requirements for my life! I am in the position of a blind girl playing with a slide-ruler of values. I am not at the nadir of my calculating powers.
The future? God—will it get worse & worse? Will I never travel, never integrate my life, never have purpose, meaning? Never have time—long stretches to investigate ideas, philosophy—to articulate the vague seething desires in me?" -Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath

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