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The man creates a pseudonym and hides behind it like a worm

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
Honesty
Behinds
Behind
Pseudonym
Men
Pseudonyms
Like
Worm
Hides
Worms
Creates

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O heart, such disorganization!
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I collect men with interesting names.
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For the few little successes I may seem to have, there are acres of misgivings and self-doubt.
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If only I knew what I wanted I could try to see about getting it.
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There is a certain unique and strange delight about walking down an empty street alone. There is an off-focus light cast by the moon, and the streetlights are part of the spotlight apparatus on a bare stage set up for you to walk through. You get a feeling of being listened to, so you talk aloud, softly, to see how it sounds.
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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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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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I like people too much or not at all. I've got to go down deep, to fall into people, to really know them.
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Only I wasn't steering anything, not even myself.
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There is a certain clinical satisfaction in seeing just how bad things can get.
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I get into a rut, unable to yank my mind out of it.
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But everybody has exactly the same smiling frightened face, with the look that says: I'm important. If you only get to know me, you will see how important I am. Look into my eyes. Kiss me, and you will see how important I am.
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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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Can you understand? Someone, somewhere, can you understand me a little, love me a little? For all my despair, for all my ideals, for all that - I love life. But it is hard, and I have so much - so very much to learn.
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And the danger is that in this move toward new horizons and far directions, that I may lose what I have now, and not find anything except loneliness
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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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I feel terribly vulnerable and 'not-myself' when I'm not writing.
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I am too pure for you or anyone.
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