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So I kiss him, and there is the great dark sea ahead.

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
Kiss
Ahead
Kissing
Sea
Dark
Great

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I don't know what started me, I just wrote poetry from the time was quite small. I guess I liked nursery rhymes and I guess I thought I could do the same thing. I wrote my first poem, my first published poem, when I was eight-and-a-half years old. It came out in The Boston Traveller and from then on, I suppose, I've been a bit of a professional.
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And if you have no past or future which, after all, is all that the present is made of, why then you may as well dispose of the empty shell of present and commit suicide.
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I started adding up all the things I couldn't do.
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All the heat and fear had purged itself. I felt surprisingly at peace. The bell jar hung suspended a few feet above my head. I was open to the circulating air.
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I, to you, am lost in the gorgeous errors of flesh.
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What I hate is the thought of being under a man's thumb, I had told Doctor Nolan. A man doesn't have a worry in the world, while I've got a baby hanging over my head like a big stick, to keep me in line.
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I am but one more drop in the great sea of matter, defined, with the ability to realize my existence.
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It seemed silly to wash one day when I would only have to wash again the next. It made me tired just to think of it.
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Doing all the little tricky things it takes to grow up, step by step, into an anxious and unsettling world.
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There I went again, building up a glamorous picture of a man who would love me passionately the minute he met me, and all out of a few prosy nothings.
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If only I knew what I wanted I could try to see about getting it.
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If I rest, if I think inward, I go mad.
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I feel terribly vulnerable and 'not-myself' when I'm not writing.
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A terrible depression yesterday. Visions of my life petering out into a kind of soft-brained stupor from lack of use.
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I am what I feel and think and do.
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I think if I had done anything else I would like to have been a doctor. This is the sort of polar opposition to being a writer, I suppose.
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Miracles occur, If you dare to call those spasmodic Tricks of radiance miracles. The wait's begun again, The long wait for the angel, For that rare, random descent.
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I am flushed and warm. I think I may be enormous, I am so stupidly happy, My wellingtons Squelching and squelching through the beautiful red.
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Joy:show joy & enjoy: then others will be joyful.
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I am still raw. I say I may be back. You know what lies are for. Even in your Zen heaven we shan't meet.
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