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I don’t care about anyone, and the feeling is quite obviously mutual.

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
Mutual
Obviously
Quite
Feeling
Anyone
Feelings
Care

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With me, the present is forever, and forever is always shifting, flowing, melting. This second is life. And when it is gone it is dead. But you can't start over with each new second. You have to judge by what is dead. It's like quicksand... hopeless from the start.
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Well, I know now. I know a little more how much a simple thing like a snowfall can mean to a person
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God, how I ricochet between certainties and doubts.
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The sky leans on me, me, the one upright among all horizontals.
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With that strange knowing that comes over me, like a clairvoyance, I know that I am sure of myself and my enormous and alarmingly timeless love for you which will always be.
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Why the hell are we conditioned into the smooth strawberry-and-cream Mother-Goose-world, Alice-in-Wonderland fable, only to be broken on the wheel as we grow older and become aware of ourselves as individuals with a dull responsibility in life?
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You smile. No, it is not fatal.
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And I am aware of my heart: it opens and closes Its bowl of red blooms out of sheer love of me.
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Hour by hour, day by day, life becomes possible.
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For me, poetry is an evasion of the real job of writing prose.
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To annihilate the world by annihilation of oneself is the deluded height of desperate egoism.
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So much working, reading, thinking, living to do! A lifetime is not long enough.
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Perhaps you considered yourself an oracle, Mouthpiece of the dead, or of some god or other. Thirty years now I have labored To dredge the silt from your throat. I am none the wiser.
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That afternoon my mother had brought me the roses. Save them for my funeral, I'd said.
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I wish you’d find the exit out of my head.
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...we shall board our imagined ship and wildly sail among sacred islands of the mad till death shatters the fabulous stars and makes us real.
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I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane. (I think I made you up inside my head.)
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I knew you'd decide to be all right again.
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I need more than anything right now what is, of course, most impossible, someone to love me, to be with me at night when I wake up in shuddering horror and fear of the cement tunnels leading down to the shock room, to comfort me with an assurance that no psychiatrist can quite manage to convey.
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I felt wise and cynical as all hell.
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