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I've eaten a bag of Green apples. Boarded the train, there's no getting off

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
Train
Green
Getting
Boarded
Eaten
Bags
Apples

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I'm happier writing about doctors than I would have been being one.
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The sickness rolled through me in great waves. After each wave it would fade away and leave me limp as a wet leaf and shivering all over and then I would feel it rising up in me again, and the glittering white torture chamber tiles under my feet and over my head and all four sides closed in and squeezed me to pieces.
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At twenty I tried to die And get back, back, back to you. I thought even the bones would do.
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I am solitary as grass. What is it I miss? Shall I ever find it, whatever it is?
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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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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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I am learning peacefulness, lying by myself quietly, as the light lies on these white walls, this bed, these hands. I am nobody I have nothing to do with explosions.
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If I was going to fall, I would hang on to my small comforts, at least, for as long as I possibly could.
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I am too pure for you or anyone.
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I could feel the winter shaking my bones and banging my teeth together.
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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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It is a feeling that no matter what the ideas or conduct of others, there is a unique rightness and beauty to life which can be shared in openness, in wind and sunlight, with a fellow human being who believes in the same basic principles.
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I must be lean & write & make worlds beside this to live in.
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What I fear most, I think, is the death of the imagination.
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I am so hungry for a big smashing creative burgeoning burdened love.
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I wish you’d find the exit out of my head.
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I couldn’t see the point of getting up. I had nothing to look forward to.
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Let me sit in a flowerpot, The spiders won't notice. My heart is a stopped geranium.
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Feel oddly barren. My sickness is when words draw in their horns and the physical world refuses to be ordered, recreated, arranged and selected. I am a victim of it then, not a master.
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