I saw the days of the year stretching ahead like a series of bright, white boxes, and separating one box from another was sleep, like a black shade. Only for me, the long perspective of shades that set off one box from the next had suddenly snapped up, and I could see day after day glaring ahead of me like a white, broad, infinitely desolate avenue.
It seemed silly to wash one day when I would only have to wash again the next.
It made me tired just to think of it.
I wanted to do everything once and for all and be through with it.
Dr. Gordon twiddled a silver pencil. “Your mother tells me you are upset.”
—From The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath
For me, it’s intense highly-pressurized work that makes my days look like endless boxes.