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I have the choice of being constantly active and happy or introspectively passive and sad. Or I can go mad by ricocheting in between.

Sylvia Plath

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Sylvia Plath
Age: 30 †
Born: 1932
Born: October 27
Died: 1963
Died: February 11
Autobiographer
Diarist
Essayist
Novelist
Poet
Writer
Boston
Massachusetts
Victoria Lucas
Sylvia Plath Hughes
Sadness
Active
Constantly
Choice
Choices
Passive
Happy
Feminism
Classic
Mad

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Aloneness and selfness are too important to betray for company.
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Jealousy can open the blood, it can make black roses.
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The blood of love welled up in my heart with a slow pain.
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Let me sit in a flowerpot, The spiders won't notice. My heart is a stopped geranium.
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It was sometime in October she had long ago lost track of all the days and it really didn’t matter because one was like another and there were no nights to separate them because she never slept any more.
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If I didn’t think, I’d be much happier.
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Perhaps some day I'll crawl back home, beaten, defeated. But not as long as I can make stories out of my heartbreak, beauty out of sorrow.
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I hurl my heart to halt his pace.
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You smile. No, it is not fatal.
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I think if I had done anything else I would like to have been a doctor. This is the sort of polar opposition to being a writer, I suppose.
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The hardest thing, I think, is to live richly in the present, without letting it be tainted & spoiled out of fear for the future or regret for a badly-managed past.
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I had hoped, at my departure, I would feel sure and knowledgeable about everything that lay ahead -- after all, I had been analyzed. Instead, all I could see were question marks.
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But writing poems and letters doesn't seem to do much good.
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Beached under the spumy blooms, we lie Sea-sick and fever-dry.
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Even amidst fierce flames the golden lotus can be planted.
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You are a dream I hope I never meet you.
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Nothing is real except the present, and already, I feel the weight of centuries smothering me. Some girl a hundred years ago once lived as I do. And she is dead. I am the present, but I know I, too, will pass. The high moment, the burning flash, come and are gone, continuous quicksand. And I don’t want to die.
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How frail the human heart must be - a mirrored pool of thought.
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Your room is not your prison. You are.
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The silence between us was so profound I thought part of it must be my fault.
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