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And the danger is that in this move toward new horizons and far directions, that I may lose what I have now, and not find anything except loneliness

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
Lose
Horizons
Loses
Directions
Moving
Horizon
Anything
Loneliness
May
Except
Find
Toward
Danger
Move

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But when I took up my pen, my hand made big, jerky letters like those of a child, and the lines sloped down the page from left to right horizontally, as if they were loops of string lying on the paper, and someone had come along and blown them askew.
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I lean to you, numb as a fossil. Tell me I'm here.
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Joy:show joy & enjoy: then others will be joyful.
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I may have made a straight A in physics, but I was panic-struck. Physics made me sick the whole time I learned it.
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The hardest thing, I think, is to live richly in the present, without letting it be tainted & spoiled out of fear for the future or regret for a badly-managed past.
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Now I am silent, hate Up to my neck, Thick, thick. I do not speak.
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Then I decided I would spend the summer writing a novel. That would fix a lot of people.
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Good to know that if I ever need attention all I have to do is die.
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When they asked some old Roman philosopher or other how he wanted to die, he said he would open his veins in a warm bath. I thought it would be easy, lying in the tup and seeing the redness flower from my wrists, flush after flush through the clear water, till I sank into sleep under a surface gaudy as poppies.
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There is so much hurt in this game of searching for a mate, of testing, trying. And you realize suddenly that you forgot it was a game, and turn away in tears.
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I felt like a racehorse in a world without racetracks or a champion college footballer suddenly confronted by Wall Street and a business suit, his days of glory shrunk to a little gold cup on his mantel with a date engraved on it like the date on a tombstone.
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Is anyone anywhere happy?
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I am not cruel, only truthful.
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How we need another soul to cling to.
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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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Piece by piece, I fed my wardrobe to the night wind, and flutteringly, like a loved one’s ashes, the gray scraps were ferried off, to settle here, there, exactly where I would never know, in the dark heart of New York.
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I wanted to be where nobody I knew could ever come.
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I feel terribly vulnerable and 'not-myself' when I'm not writing.
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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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I like you, but not too much. I don’t want to like anybody too much.
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