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Not being perfect hurts.

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
Perfect
Hurts
Hurt

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To learn and think to think and live to live and learn: this always, with new insight, new understanding, and new love.
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I hadn't, at the last moment, felt like washing off the two diagonal lines of dried blood that marked my cheeks. They seemed touching, and rather spectacular, and I thought I would carry them around with me, like the relic of a dead lover, till they wore off of their own accord.
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But when it came right down to it, the skin of my wrist looked so white and defenseless that I couldn't do it.
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Is there no way out of the mind?
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The thing about writing is not to talk, but to do it no matter how bad or even mediocre it is, the process and production is the thing, not the sitting and theorizing about how one should write ideally, or how well one could write if one really wanted to or had the time.
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God, how I ricochet between certainties and doubts.
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And I sit here without identity: faceless. My head aches.
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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 took a deep breath and listened to the old bray of my heart. I am. I am. I am.
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I need more than anything right now what is, of course, most impossible, someone to love me, to be with me at night when I wake up in shuddering horror and fear of the cement tunnels leading down to the shock room, to comfort me with an assurance that no psychiatrist can quite manage to convey.
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I have the one person I could ever love in this world. Now I must work to be a person worthy of that.
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There must be quite a few things that a hot bath won't cure, but I don't know many of them.
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We stayed at home to write, to consolidate our outstretched selves.
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Only I wasn't steering anything, not even myself.
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A black-sharded lady keeps me in a parrot cage.
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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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O heart, such disorganization!
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Every day is precious and I feel infinitely sad at this time melting away from me.
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I have a violence in me that is hot as death-blood.
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I must be lean & write & make worlds beside this to live in.
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