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I felt like a racehorse in a world without racetracks.

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
Racehorse
Racehorses
Felt
Without
Like
World

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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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I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead I lift my eyes and all is born again.
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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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But life is long. And it is the long run that balances the short flare of interest and passion.
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There is a certain clinical satisfaction in seeing just how bad things can get.
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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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Only I wasn't steering anything, not even myself.
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Perhaps when we find ourselves wanting everything, it is because we are dangerously close to wanting nothing.
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I felt dull and flat and full of shattered visions.
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Tomorrow I will curse the dawn, but there will be other, earlier nights, and the dawns will be no longer hell laid out in alarms and raw bells and sirens.
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I need some older, wiser being to cry to. I talk to God, but the sky is empty, and Orion walks by and doesn't speak.
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Look at that ugly dead mask here and do not forget it. It is a chalk mask with dead dry poison behind it, like the death angel. It is what I was this fall, and what I never want to be again. The pouting disconsolate mouth, the flat, bored, numb, expressionless eyes: symptoms of the foul decay within.
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Outcast on a cold star, unable to feel anything but an awful helpless numbness. I look down into the warm, earthy world. Into a nest of lovers' beds, baby cribs, meal tables, all the solid commerce of life in this earth, and feel apart, enclosed in a wall of glass.
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What is so real as the cry of a child?
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What did my arms do before they held you?
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The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.
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It was my last act of love (first words to her mother in the hospital after her first major suicide attempt)
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I started adding up all the things I couldn't do.
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I couldn’t see the point of getting up. I had nothing to look forward to.
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What I fear most, I think, is the death of the imagination.
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