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And I sit here without identity: faceless. My head aches.

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
Without
Aches
Faceless
Ache
Identity
Head

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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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It was sometime in October she had long ago lost track of all the days and it really didn’t matter because one was like another and there were no nights to separate them because she never slept any more.
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If I was going to fall, I would hang on to my small comforts, at least, for as long as I possibly could.
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God, how I ricochet between certainties and doubts.
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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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Feel oddly barren. My sickness is when words draw in their horns and the physical world refuses to be ordered, recreated, arranged and selected. I am a victim of it then, not a master.
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I wonder about all the roads not taken and am moved to quote Frost...but won't. It is sad to be able only to mouth other poets. I want someone to mouth me.
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I decided I would put off the novel until I had gone to Europe and had a lover, and that I would never learn a word of shorthand. If I never learned shorthand I would never have to use it.
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What a man wants is a mate and what a woman wants is infinite security,’ and, ‘What a man is is an arrow into the future and a what a woman is is the place the arrow shoots off from.
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I wish you’d find the exit out of my head.
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Only I wasn't steering anything, not even myself.
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What is my life for and what am I going to do with it? I don't know and I'm afraid.
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I think the coming of spring, the stars overhead, the first snowfall and so on are gifts for a child, a young poet.
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I didn’t want any flowers, I only wanted to lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty. How free it is, you have no idea how free.
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One thing, I try to be honest. And what is revealed is often rather hideously unflattering.
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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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Let me sit in a flowerpot, The spiders won't notice. My heart is a stopped geranium.
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So I kiss him, and there is the great dark sea ahead.
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