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Tomorrow is another day toward death.

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
Toward
Tomorrow
Death
Another

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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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Why can’t I try on different lives, like dresses, to see which fits best and is more becoming?
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I am what I feel and think and do.
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I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane. (I think I made you up inside my head.)
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That’s one of the reasons I never wanted to get married. The last thing I wanted was infinite security and to be the place an arrow shoots off from. 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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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 feel terribly vulnerable and 'not-myself' when I'm not writing.
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I dream too much, work too little.
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It was my last act of love (first words to her mother in the hospital after her first major suicide attempt)
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It never occurred to me to say no.
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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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Is there no way out of the mind?
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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 hurl my heart to halt his pace.
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...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.
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I said: I must remember this, being small.
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I must bridge the gap between adolescent glitter and mature glow.
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I must not be selfless: develop a sense of self. A solidness that can't be attacked.
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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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If I didn’t think, I’d be much happier.
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