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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.

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
Time
Fixed
Parentheses
Bed
Fluent
Horse
Miscellaneous
Wind
Pins
Gone
Knife
Place
Knives
Brooches
Back
Horses
Parenthesis
Mind
Melancholy
Salve

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There was a beautiful time.
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With me, the present is forever, and forever is always shifting, flowing, melting. This second is life. And when it is gone it is dead. But you can't start over with each new second. You have to judge by what is dead. It's like quicksand... hopeless from the start.
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The blood of love welled up in my heart with a slow pain.
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And there's the fallacy of existence: the idea that one could be happy forever and age with a given situation or series of accomplishments.
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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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So much working, reading, thinking, living to do! A lifetime is not long enough.
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I must bridge the gap between adolescent glitter and mature glow.
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Only I wasn't steering anything, not even myself.
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They had to call and call And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.
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Sometimes I nursed starfish alive in jam jars of seawater and watched them grow back lost arms. On this day, this awful birthday of otherness, my rival, somebody else, I flung the starfish against a stone. Let it perish.
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This seemed a dreary and wasted life for a girl with fifteen years of straight A's, but I knew that's what marriage was like, because cook and clean and wash was just what Buddy Willard's mother did from morning till night, and she was the wife of a university professor and had been a private school teacher herself.
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Love, love, I have hung our cave with roses.
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The slime of all my yesterdays rots in the hollow of my skull.
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God, how I ricochet between certainties and doubts.
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Your room is not your prison. You are.
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The man creates a pseudonym and hides behind it like a worm
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I do not know who I am tonight.
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I am so hungry for a big smashing creative burgeoning burdened love.
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I took a deep breath and listened to the old bray of my heart. I am. I am. I am.
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…'It always has to end, doesn't it? We always have to separate.' 'Yes,' I said. He was insistent, 'But it doesn't always have to be that way. We could be together some day for always.' 'Oh, no,' I told him, wondering if he knew it was all over. 'We keep running till we die. We separate, get further apart, till we are dead.
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