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How we need another soul to cling to.

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
Companionship
Cling
Yearning
Loneliness
Another
Soul
Need
Needs

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Maybe forgetfulness, like a kind snow, should numb and cover them. But they were a part of me. They were my landscape.
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It is so much safer not to feel, not to let the world touch me.
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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.
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Before I give my body, I must give my thoughts, my mind, my dreams.
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The blood of love welled up in my heart with a slow pain.
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And when at last you find someone to whom you feel you can pour out your soul, you stop in shock at the words you utter— they are so rusty, so ugly, so meaningless and feeble from being kept in the small cramped dark inside you so long.
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I have this demon who wants me to run away screaming if I am going to be flawed, fallible. It wants me to think I'm so good I must be perfect. Or nothing. I am, on the contrary, something: a being who gets tired, has shyness to fight, has more trouble than most facing people easily.
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Whenever I'm sad I'm going to die, or so nervous I can't sleep, or in love with somebody I won't be seeing for a week, I slump down just so far and then I say: 'I'll go take a hot bath.
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..I fancied you'd return the way you said, But I grow old and I forget your name. (I think I made you up inside my head.) I should have loved a thunderbird instead At least when spring comes they roar back again. I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead. (I think I made you up inside my head.)
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The silence depressed me. It wasn't the silence of silence. It was my own silence.
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I felt wise and cynical as all hell.
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I am flushed and warm. I think I may be enormous, I am so stupidly happy, My wellingtons Squelching and squelching through the beautiful red.
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I wanted to be where nobody I knew could ever come.
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I think my poems immediately come out of the sensuous and emotional experiences I have, but I must say I cannot sympathise with these cries from the heart that are informed by nothing except a needle or a knife, or whatever it is.
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Slowly, slowly, catch the monkey.
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I am too pure for you or anyone.
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I can't think logically about who I am or where I am going. I have been very ecstatic, horribly depressed, shocked, elated, enlightened, and enervated.
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I didn't really see why people should look at me. Plenty of people looked queerer than I did.
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After all, we are nothing more or less than we choose to reveal.
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Life was not to be sitting in hot amorphic leisure in my backyard idly writing or not writing, as the spirit moved me. It was, instead, running madly, in a crowded schedule, in a squirrel cage of busy people. Working, living, dancing, dreaming, talking, kissing- singing, laughing, learning.
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