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I lean to you, numb as a fossil. Tell me I'm here.

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
Fossil
Numb
Fossils
Lean
Tell

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I could feel the winter shaking my bones and banging my teeth together.
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The sky leans on me, me, the one upright among all horizontals.
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Some things are hard to write about. After something happens to you, you go to write it down, and either you over dramatize it, or underplay it, exaggerate the wrong parts or ignore the important ones. At any rate, you never write it quite the way you want to.
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Don't let the wicked city get you down.
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I think the coming of spring, the stars overhead, the first snowfall and so on are gifts for a child, a young poet.
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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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I am but one more drop in the great sea of matter, defined, with the ability to realize my existence.
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The only reason I remembered this play was because it had a mad person in it, and everything I had ever read about mad people stuck in my mind, while everything else flew out.
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I couldn’t see the point of getting up. I had nothing to look forward to.
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Over coffee and orange juice the embryonic suicide brightens visibly.
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There I went again, building up a glamorous picture of a man who would love me passionately the minute he met me, and all out of a few prosy nothings.
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How we need another soul to cling to.
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I am learning peacefulness, lying by myself quietly, as the light lies on these white walls, this bed, these hands. I am nobody I have nothing to do with explosions.
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…I hate myself for not being able to go downstairs naturally and seek comfort in numbers. I hate myself for having to sit here and be torn between I know not what within me.
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It never occurred to me to say no.
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Love set you going like a fat gold watch. The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry Took its place among the elements.
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What I fear most, I think, is the death of the imagination.
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