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I do not fear it: I have been there.

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
Fear

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The moon has nothing to be sad about, Staring from her hood of bone. She is used to this sort of thing. Her blacks crackle and drag.
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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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What is my life for and what am I going to do with it? I don't know and I'm afraid.
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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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So learn about life. Cut yourself a big slice with the silver server, a big slice of pie. Open your eyes. Let life happen.
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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 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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The silence drew off, baring the pebbles and shells and all the tatty wreckage of my life.
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Now I am silent, hate Up to my neck, Thick, thick. I do not speak.
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I feel that very strongly: having been an academic, having been tempted by the invitation to stay on to become a Ph.D., a professor, and all that, one side of me certainly does respect all disciplines, as long as they don't ossify.
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I need the reality of other people, work, to fulfill myself. Must never become a mere mother and housewife.
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What I didn't say was that each time I picked up a German dictionary or a German book, the very sight of those dense, black, barbed-wire letters made my mind shut like a clam.
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I could never be a complete scholar or a complete housewife ora completewriter: Imustcombinea little of all, and thereby be imperfect in all.
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I wonder why I don't go to bed and go to sleep. But then it would be tomorrow, so I decide that no matter how tired, no matter how incoherent I am, I can skip on hour more of sleep and live.
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I get into a rut, unable to yank my mind out of it.
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One thing, I try to be honest. And what is revealed is often rather hideously unflattering.
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The thought that I might kill myself formed in my mind coolly as a tree or a flower.
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I tried to speak in a cool, calm way, but the zombie rose up in my throat and choked me off.
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I feel terribly vulnerable and 'not-myself' when I'm not writing.
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Aloneness and selfness are too important to betray for company.
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