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Why can’t I try on different lives, like dresses, to see which fits best and is more becoming?

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
Trying
Like
Fits
Dresses
Fit
Becoming
Lives
Best
Different

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I can't think logically about who I am or where I am going. I have been very ecstatic, horribly depressed, shocked, elated, enlightened, and enervated.
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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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I had imagined a kind, ugly, intuitive man looking up and say, 'Ah!' in an encouraging way, as if he could see something I couldn't, and then I would find words to tell him how I was so scared, as if I were being stuffed farther and farther into a black, airless sack with no way out.
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The man creates a pseudonym and hides behind it like a worm
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I have stitched life into me like a rare organ
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You are the one. Solid the spaces lean on, envious. You are the baby in the barn.
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Maybe forgetfulness, like a kind snow, should numb and cover them. But they were a part of me. They were my landscape.
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Every woman adores a Fascist, The boot in the face, the brute Brute heart of a brute like you.
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If only a group of people were more important to me than the idea of a Novel, I might begin a novel.
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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 took a deep breath and listened to the old bray of my heart. I am. I am. I am.
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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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But life is long. And it is the long run that balances the short flare of interest and passion.
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Slowly, slowly, catch the monkey.
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To annihilate the world by annihilation of oneself is the deluded height of desperate egoism.
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I am sure there are things that can't be cured by a good bath but I can't think of one.
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My life is a discipline, a prison: I live for my own work, without which I am nothing.
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I saw the years of my life spaced along a road in the form of telephone poles threaded together by wires. I counted one, two, three... nineteen telephone poles, and then the wires dangled into space, and try as I would, I couldn't see a single pole beyond the nineteenth.
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I am terrified by this dark thing that sleeps in me.
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