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There was a beautiful time.

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
Beautiful
Time

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I took a deep breath and listened to the old bray of my heart. I am. I am. I am.
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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 was my own woman. The next step was to find the proper sort of man.
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I must not be selfless: develop a sense of self. A solidness that can't be attacked.
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I keep wanting to crawl back into the womb.
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To look at her, you might not guess that inside she is laughing and crying, at her own stupidities and luckiness, and at the strange enigmatic ways of the world which she will spend lifetime trying to learn and understand.
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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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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 could feel the winter shaking my bones and banging my teeth together.
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The trouble was, I had been inadequate all along, I simply hadn't thought about it.
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So I kiss him, and there is the great dark sea ahead.
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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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Joy:show joy & enjoy: then others will be joyful.
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The silence depressed me. It wasn't the silence of silence. It was my own silence.
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To learn and think to think and live to live and learn: this always, with new insight, new understanding, and new love.
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Go out and do something. It isn’t your room that’s a prison, it’s yourself.
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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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There is a charge For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge For the hearing of my heart - It really goes. And there is a charge, a very large charge, For a word or a touch Or a bit of blood Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.
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A dispassionate white sun shone at the summit of the sky. I wanted to hone myself on it till I grew saintly and thin and essential as the blade of a knife.
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If only I knew what I wanted I could try to see about getting it.
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