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I am still raw. I say I may be back. You know what lies are for. Even in your Zen heaven we shan't meet.

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
Still
May
Back
Shan
Even
Lies
Meet
Heaven
Lying
Stills

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The silence drew off, baring the pebbles and shells and all the tatty wreckage of my life.
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I've eaten a bag of Green apples. Boarded the train, there's no getting off
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I desire the things that will destroy me in the end.
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I am but one more drop in the great sea of matter, defined, with the ability to realize my existence.
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I could feel the winter shaking my bones and banging my teeth together.
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It is a feeling that no matter what the ideas or conduct of others, there is a unique rightness and beauty to life which can be shared in openness, in wind and sunlight, with a fellow human being who believes in the same basic principles.
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Then I thought, No, I broke it myself. I broke it on purpose to pay myself back for being such a heel.
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I need some older, wiser being to cry to. I talk to God, but the sky is empty, and Orion walks by and doesn't speak.
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How frail the human heart must be - a mirrored pool of thought.
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I believe that one should be able to control and manipulate experiences, even the most terrifying, like madness, being tortured...with an informed and intelligent mind.
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Over coffee and orange juice the embryonic suicide brightens visibly.
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I felt my lungs inflate with the onrush of scenery—air, mountains, trees, people. I thought, This is what it is to be happy.
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because wherever I sat—on the deck of a ship or at a street café in Paris or Bangkok—I would be sitting under the same glass bell jar, stewing in my own sour air.
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No, I won't try to escape myself by losing myself in artificial chatter 'Did you have a nice vacation?' 'Oh, yes, and you?' I'll stay here and try to pin that loneliness down.
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I like people too much or not at all.
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I buried my head under the darkness of the pillow and pretended it was night. I couldn't see the point of getting up. I had nothing to look forward to.
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I dream too much, work too little.
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So I began to think maybe it was true that when you were married and had children it was like being brainwashed, and afterward you went about as numb as a slave in a totalitarian state.
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Why can’t I try on different lives, like dresses, to see which fits best and is more becoming?
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