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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
Faceless
Ache
Identity
Head
Without
Aches

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Perhaps when we find ourselves wanting everything, it is because we are dangerously close to wanting nothing.
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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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Tomorrow is another day toward death.
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Jealousy can open the blood, it can make black roses.
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The trouble was, I had been inadequate all along, I simply hadn't thought about it.
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I like you, but not too much. I don’t want to like anybody too much.
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She stared at her reflection in the glossed shop windows as if to make sure, moment by moment, that she continued to exist.
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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
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How frail the human heart must be - a mirrored pool of thought.
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If you expect nothing from anybody, you’re never disappointed.
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I would say everything should be able to come into a poem, but I can't put toothbrushes into a poem, I really can't!
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Sometimes I feel so stupid and dull and uncreative that I am amazed when people tell me differently.
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Every day is precious and I feel infinitely sad at this time melting away from me.
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There was a beautiful time.
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With that strange knowing that comes over me, like a clairvoyance, I know that I am sure of myself and my enormous and alarmingly timeless love for you which will always be.
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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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I took a deep breath and listened to the old bray of my heart. I am. I am. I am.
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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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I think I am worthwhile just because I have optical nerves and can try to put down what they perceive. What a fool!
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I felt dull and flat and full of shattered visions.
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