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See, the darkness is leaking from the cracks. I cannot contain it. I cannot contain my life.

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
Cracks
Darkness
Cannot
Life
Leaking
Contain

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I didn’t want any flowers, I only wanted To lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty. How free it is, you have no idea how free—— The peacefulness is so big it dazes you, And it asks nothing, a name tag, a few trinkets. It is what the dead close on, finally I imagine them Shutting their mouths on it, like a Communion tablet.
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What is so real as the cry of a child?
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And I am aware of my heart: it opens and closes Its bowl of red blooms out of sheer love of me.
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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 do not love I do not love anybody except myself. That is a rather shocking thing to admit.
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Over coffee and orange juice the embryonic suicide brightens visibly.
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God has to remind us this isn't heaven by a long shot, so he increases the radios and lethal flies.
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Even amidst fierce flames the golden lotus can be planted.
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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 shut my eyes and all the world drops dead I lift my eyes and all is born again.
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Whenever I'm sad I'm going to die, or so nervous I can't sleep, or in love with somebody I won't be seeing for a week, I slump down just so far and then I say: 'I'll go take a hot bath.
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I feel occasionally my skull will crack, fatigue is continuous - I only go from less exhausted to more exhausted & back again.
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What did my arms do before they held you?
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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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How can I tell Bob that my happiness streams from having wrenched a piece out of my life, a piece of hurt and beauty, and transformed it to typewritten words on paper? How can he know I am justifying my life, my keen emotions, my feeling, by turning it into print?
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we walk the plank with strangers.
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The moon, too, abases her subjects, but in the daytime she is ridiculous. Your dissatisfactions, on the other hand, arrive through the mailslot with loving regularity, white and blank, expansive as carbon monoxide. No day is safe from news of you, walking about in Africa maybe, but thinking of me.
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I believe that one should be able to control and manipulate experiences, even the most terrifying, like madness, being tortured...with an informed and intelligent mind.
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What I want back is what I was Before the bed, before the knife, Before the brooch-pin and the salve Fixed me in this parenthesis Horses fluent in the wind, A place, a time gone out of mind.
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The trouble was, I had been inadequate all along, I simply hadn't thought about it.
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