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I am terrified by this dark thing that sleeps in me.

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
Sleeps
Terrified
Sleep
Dark
Thing

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I am made, crudely, for success.
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If you pluck out my heart To find what makes it move, You’ll halt the clock That syncopates our love.
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I am still so naïve I know pretty much what I like and dislike but please, don’t ask me who I am. A passionate, fragmentary girl, maybe?
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I am I-I am powerful, but to what extent? I am I.
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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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Although, I admit, I desire, Occasionally, some backtalk From the mute sky, I can't honestly complain: A certain minor light may still Lean incandescent Out of kitchen table or chair As if a celestial burning took Possession of the most obtuse objects now and then --
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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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I am accused. I dream of massacres. I am a garden of black and red agonies. I drink them, Hating myself, hating and fearing. And now the world conceives Its end and runs toward it, arms held out in love.
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Slowly, slowly, catch the monkey.
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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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If every soldier refused to take arms ... there would be no wars but no one has the courage to be the first to live according to Christ and Socrates, because in a world of opportunists they would be martyred.
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But I am I now and so many other millions are so irretrievably their own special variety of 'I' that I can hardly bear to think of it. I: how firm a letter how reassuring the three strokes: one vertical, proud and assertive, and then the two short horizontal lines in quick, smug succession. The pen scratching on the paper…I…I…I…I…I…I.
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A terrible depression yesterday. Visions of my life petering out into a kind of soft-brained stupor from lack of use.
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Outcast on a cold star, unable to feel anything but an awful helpless numbness. I look down into the warm, earthy world. Into a nest of lovers' beds, baby cribs, meal tables, all the solid commerce of life in this earth, and feel apart, enclosed in a wall of glass.
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And if you have no past or future which, after all, is all that the present is made of, why then you may as well dispose of the empty shell of present and commit suicide.
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Hour by hour, day by day, life becomes possible.
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The silence drew off, baring the pebbles and shells and all the tatty wreckage of my life.
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Not easy to state the change you made. If I'm alive now, I was dead, Though, like a stone, unbothered by it.
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As I lay on my back in bed staring up at the blank, white ceiling the stillness seemed to grow bigger and bigger until I felt my eardrums would burst with it.
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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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