Plath Quote #6889334
all quotes · plath · poetry · life · celeb ·
all quotes · plath · poetry · life · celeb ·
"It is as if my life were magically run by two electric
"It
is as if my life were magically run by
two electric currents: joyous positive
and despairing negative—
whichever is running at the moment
dominates my
life,
floods it.”
RIP, Sylvia Plath
two electric currents: joyous positive
and despairing negative—
whichever is running at the moment
dominates my
life,
floods it.”
RIP, Sylvia Plath
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posted September 20, 2013 at 12:46pm UTC tagged with plath, poetry, life, celeb
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- Cookies&cream ❤ chapter 8: I turned the key in the lock and opened the door to an empty house. Shuffling off my school loafers, I silently treaded the two flights of stairs to mine and my brother’s rooms, and shut the door behind me. In a way I was glad none of my parents ever made it home before seven most nights. That way when things like this happened, I didn’t have to explain myself to them. At the end of double English, everyone was packing away to bolt from the door as soon as the bell decided to ring – when Anya’s phone slipped out of her skirt pocket like a nosedive to hell, and went off. Loudly. And all of sudden, the cheerful laughter of twenty-four students and one middle-aged teacher died to the sounds of Flow Rida’s ‘Low’. “Seriously, Anya?” I hissed. “LOW?!” “It’s Aaron’s song” she said meekly. Aaron was her ex-boyfriend who’d dumped her three months ago to hook up with her cousin, Letitia. And Anya didn’t get over things easily. Mr Johnston stared at the vibrating Motorola, tensing an angry vein in his jaw. He was something of a technophobe, and decidedly despised phones of any kind – especially when they went off in lessons, the theatre, and anywhere else really. “Whose is it?” he growled. The silence was deafening. Anya swallowed. Using your phone during school time earned you an instant detention, and I could imagine the way her parents would flip if they saw so much as a smudge on Anya’s stellar student reputation. “It’s mine, sir.” I said, quickly. Everyone stared. Only a half-arsed fool would believe my story over Anya’s – no one except Anya would own a Motorola, come on – but luckily for us, Mr Johnston was a little less smarter than he looked. “My room, Nula.” He seethed at me. “NOW”. Staring at the 500 word essay on the motion “This House believes technology is responsible for the decay of common sense in society today” I’d printed off shortly before six o’ clock in the IT suite, I felt my mind started to unravel from fatigue … I held my head in my hands, trying to hold it all together in my skull. It didn’t help that tonight we were heading over to my Aunt Fariha’s again to celebrate New Year’s in style – counting down as one big happy family to twelve o’ clock. It wasn’t the celebration itself as much as the connotations her house now held for me – and the fact that my favourite person in the world would be there too. The lovely Deshri Harma. I’d seen Desh twice, three times since that fateful night of the Christmas Party, the night I’d made him cry. I knew I was overthinking and over-obsessing over a boy I’d only just met, for Pete’s sake – but it didn’t make it any easier to see him winding up my mother like a cheeky favourite child, or watch him bonding with Sonia and Maya, Aunt Fariha’s cousins who might as well have been my own sisters, the way we’d grown up together. Despite whatever he said about that Christmas, it seemed Desh seemed to be bonding and getting along with everyone else just fine – my mum, my sisters, even my own hard-arsed father – except me. Anya’s number appeared on my phone again. I silenced it heartlessly; she’d dialled three times already, just to dissolve in a bubble of tears down the other end of the line and apologise for laying me into Mr J. That was the problem with Anya – she was so innocent. She’d told me later she always kept her phone on loud, just in case Aaron wanted her and called her back. He’d be doing it any time soon, she told me, and I could just see her eyes shining like a kid’s faith in Santa Claus. I didn’t know what to do with that kind of hope. I mean – I’d been climbing that steep, slimey slope to sanity for the past how many years now? To tell her to give up would be hypocritical. Wiping away the creases on my forehead, I got up and threw open my wardrobe. A long cream-coloured knit sweater, with my grey-silver jeggings and favourite lucky socks – maroon, with the Golden Snitch embroidered into them. I had a huge obsession with socks; Haydn bought them for my last birthday. Who knew – if I was going to be dealing with Desh playing happy families in a world I didn’t belong again tonight, maybe I needed all the luck I could get. thanks you for reading this guys :') take care! Love Dapz xxx
- Cookies&cream ❤ chapter 9: When Pa finally walked through the door at 7:30, I was sitting cross-legged in the hall in front of my boxy black Yamaha keyboard with my neon-blue headphones jammed tightly over my head, figuring out a frustrating new chord progression to my latest song mix-up: Maroon 5’s ‘Payphone’ with Beyoncé’s ‘Best Thing I Never Had’. I almost didn’t hear my father enter the room – I was so absorbed in my music I only noticed him talking to me when his shadow hit the corner of my vision. Everyone has a secret, and I guess this is mine: I was obsessed with music. Not in the way every teenager in the planet was glued to their iPod – hell, I didn’t even own an iPod; all my tracks were downloaded directly onto my phone’s SD card. Music gave me an outlet for all the pent-up emotions I kept tightly screwed inside me, a chance to figure out my own way out of my crisis’s by transforming my bitter, fragile thoughts into songs that screamed my secrets. It relaxed me, calmed me down to a state of almost meditative peace ... like a prayer, making my own music silenced me to state of pure and utter control it was almost spiritual. Once I got into my music, I was another person – I had power, I had hope, and I had a chance at surviving the next nightmare in store for me. I shook my hair free from my headphones and looked up at my father. Gaunt face, chiselled jaw, with eyes that shone like black diamonds, it wasn’t hard to see how my mother had fallen for him. When I was younger everyone told me I looked just like him, but I knew I’d never match my father’s looks – not with my mother’s dimples that only appeared when I frowned, or the deep, dark brown of my eyes Jesse said made me look like an old wise tree. Compliment much. “Ma said she’s been held up at work today,” Pa said, looking down at me with his usual expression of perpetual indifference. He didn’t mean to look unfriendly, but the forced neutrality and lack of emotion my dad adopted to many a situation really didn’t help. “I have to go pick her up in half an hour. If you and your brother are going to shower, take it now, because when we get back I’ll give you two minutes to get in the car before we drive off.” “Ouch.” I said, unblinking. He smirked at me, turning round. “Tell your brother,” he called over his shoulder. “I’m going to use the loo quickly and light the candle.” My parents were orthodox Catholics; so typically Portuguese. Well, not that orthodox. My dad was the youngest of four brothers, made rich through the generations through dirty profit and blood money – and my mother descended from a line in the desperately poor outskirts of Lisbon, where single mothers relied their female advantages to make ends meet. But their unshakeable faith in God that had brought them to this country alive when so many died trying was something special: every day, they lit a candle and said their prayers for the dying, the suffering, and those in search of hope. Maybe I wasn’t religious, but there was no harm in spreading a little love in a world like ours. “Hey Pa,” I said. “I’m ready though.” My dad popped his head around the doorway, chomping on something I’d left in the oven for him and my brother when they got home. He scrutinised my outfit. “There’s a stain on your sleeve,” he said. “And in those trousers, you’ll be turning the heads of all the poor boys sitting next to you. Pity them, muñeqita – wear something more appropriate for the New Year’s Prayers”. Why do fathers always believe their daughters are prettier than they actually are? Switching off my beloved keyboard, I moved it to the corner and trudged back upstairs to my room. Hearing the familiar vibration ringing from my desk, I ran to pick up the phone. “Hello?” I breathed, not checking the caller ID. Probably Sonia or Maya, checking whether we’d be able to make it early today. “Hey – Nix?” My phone started slipping through my shaking fingers; I grabbed hold of it again. “Yes?” I said. “Um, I called your mum, she’s not picking up ... you guys are coming today, right?” Of course. A last resort. Struggling to control my swelling disappointment, I replied. “Oh yeah – don’t worry, we’ll be there around eight, eight-thirty.” “Okay, cool. Just ... checking.” “Alright, Desh. Bye.” And I cut the call before my shaking breath finally betrayed me. thanks you for reading this guys :') take care!Love Dapz xxx
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