Quote

...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.

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
Till
Sail
Sacred
Board
Among
Ship
Shall
Imagined
Stars
Boards
Death
Islands
Shatters
Makes
Ships
Wildly
Real
Mad
Fabulous

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I feel terribly vulnerable and 'not-myself' when I'm not writing.
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I have the choice of being constantly active and happy or introspectively passive and sad. Or I can go mad by ricocheting in between.
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But writing poems and letters doesn't seem to do much good.
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I think my poems immediately come out of the sensuous and emotional experiences I have, but I must say I cannot sympathise with these cries from the heart that are informed by nothing except a needle or a knife, or whatever it is.
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And when at last you find someone to whom you feel you can pour out your soul, you stop in shock at the words you utter— they are so rusty, so ugly, so meaningless and feeble from being kept in the small cramped dark inside you so long.
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I had hoped, at my departure, I would feel sure and knowledgeable about everything that lay ahead -- after all, I had been analyzed. Instead, all I could see were question marks.
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I opened the door and blinked out into the bright hall. I had the impression it wasn't night and it wasn't day, but some lurid third interval that had suddenly slipped between them and would never end.
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The blood of love welled up in my heart with a slow pain.
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If only I knew what I wanted I could try to see about getting it.
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I had always imagined myself hitching up on to my elbows on the delivery table after it was all over - dead white, of course, with no makeup and from the awful ordeal, but smiling and radiant, with my hair down to my waist, and reaching out for my first little squirmy child and saying its name, whatever it was.
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Only I wasn't steering anything, not even myself.
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I must get my soul back from you I am killing my flesh without it.
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I wanted change and excitement and to shoot off in all directions myself, like the colored arrows from a Fourth of July rocket.
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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.
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I have let things slip, a thirty-year~old cargo boat Stubbornly hanging on to my name and address.
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Don't let the wicked city get you down.
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And there's the fallacy of existence: the idea that one could be happy forever and age with a given situation or series of accomplishments.
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I need not to be more with others, but to be more & more deeply, richly alone. Recreating worlds.
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God, if ever I have come close to wanting to commit suicide, it is now, with the groggy sleepless blood dragging through my veins, and the air thick and gray with rain ... I fell into bed again this morning, begging for sleep, withdrawing into the dark, warm, fetid escape from action, from responsibility. No good.
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The man creates a pseudonym and hides behind it like a worm
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