I'm still so naïve; I know pretty much what I like and dislike; but please don't ask who am I.
A passionate, fragmentary girl maybe?
Sylvia Plath , The unabridged journals.
Love breaks my bones and I laugh.”
— Charles Bukowski
This arrived earlier today. Waited several months for a restock but it was definitely worth it 🤍
Songs that make you remember the things that never happened to you are my type of songs
Hi cutie, are you if i could fly, cos for your eyes only i'll show you my heart
This one's for you @sugarspiceandeverythingnoice <3
― Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath
Literary history that happened on 20 June
Conmigo, el presente es eterno, y la eternidad siempre está cambiando, fluyendo, derritiéndose. Este segundo es vida. Y cuando se termina, muere. Pero no puedes empezar de nuevo a cada segundo. Tienes que juzgar de acuerdo a lo que ya murió.
Sylvia Plath. Diarios.
Sylvia Plath, excerpts from the poem, "Soliloquy of the Solipsist"
god, but life is loneliness, despite all the opiates, despite the shrill tinsel gaiety of “parties” with no purpose, despite the false grinning faces we all wear. and when at last you find someone to whom you feel you can pour out your soul, you stop in shock at the words you utter — they are so rusty, so ugly, so meaningless and feeble from being kept in the small cramped dark inside you so long. yes, there is joy, fulfillment and companionship — but the loneliness of the soul in it’s appalling self-consciousness, is horrible and overpowering.
i wish i knew how to find the answers before asking the questions, to know the feeling of the cold air between my fingers before rolling down the windows, to prepare for the unavoidable rain even when the sun still fiercely blazed in the empty sky
how i wish the mysteries of life would reveal itself in front of me -- lower down its cloak and allow me to feel hopeful, just for once. bob his head from the cerulean waters and show itself to me, despite the crash and fall of the waves.
how light would life be if i had known what i have known now -- to save time, to shield myself of the unnecessary heartbreak like a flower retreating back to a bud because its bloom is not yet welcome.
if only life had been more open to me, with all its nakedness and rawness in front of me, then maybe i would be a little bit more open as well.
open, annyka dela cruz
Dear Sylvia Plath,
This is a letter thanking you for putting me to sleep. Yes, I thank you for tucking my miseries into a neat little box and then for placing it in my mind. But then on entering, it tipped over and drowned me like a twisted lullaby. My mind went limp and it melted into you, and I bet you laughed, laughed and said that you told me so. Before you, tulips were just tulips, figs were just fruits and jars felt transparent. But now, tulips scream, figs splatter and the jars, the bell jars suffocate.
I wonder, how many lives I have lived so far. Have I used up all nine? You remind me that I am young and untainted and deliberate. Yet I feel pruned, waiting for madness and experience. I wait for glory and beauty and fame. But mostly I wait for peace. I am tired of feeling inadequate and lying to myself that I somehow am not. ‘I am, I am, I am’ I repeat after you. I wish you could hear me. I wish you were here. I wouldn’t think it mattered anyway. You would only smile and think me pathetic. Pathetic to wish to be someone else, especially to be you. But that is fine. I know now that ‘I exist as I am, and that is enough’.
Does my younger self look up at me, or look down? I think of the hope I lost and the wickedness I found and I wonder what she would think of me now. I ricochet between elation and despair constantly but I find that I never truly change. ‘I am a victim of introspection’ I look inside till I hit dead ends. But they’re all dead ends, aren’t they? We keep digging till we find something shiny and hide it even deeper so that no one else finds it. But unlike you Lady Lazarus, I sit restless inside the eye of the hurricane trying to squeeze through the chaos because I know that better things wait for me outside.
My passions, my desires and my professions keep changing in my head. I chop them down as soon as they form roots. The non-commitment comforts me. Or is it fear that holds my wants behind? Esther’s figs drop around me and I beg to the few left on the tree to wait a little longer. And I wonder if a dropped fig would be as bad as you make it seem. I fear that I am reaching the end of my youth even though I did nothing to get there in the first place. I fear I am too young for danger and too weary for excitement. I am never satisfied now because of you. I see you in the face of babies, fake smiles and handsome men. You smile at me knowingly, because I too ‘desire the things which will destroy me in the end’.
Before you I didn’t know what being a woman felt like. Maybe I still don’t. But you sure brought me a lot closer. I wish to be wise, cynical, and utterly mad. But what I wish to be the most is pure. Pure, natural as if I was birthed by the earth herself. Then maybe I would wait. Maybe ‘the sea could make my decision for me’. You tell me that ‘Dying is an art’ so I leave it unto you to resurrect me every time I die because you may do it exceptionally well but I guess living’s my thing now.
Brief Lives of the Poets
Was it a genetic trait, her pallor, passed down from her mother, or a marker of latent cancer? Had she feared her lover planned to leave her? Did her poems pull her out of the sunshine, trap her in her chamber? Or was the bridge she built of words her savior, lifting her over the hypnotic river? Was she always taunted by the laughter of others? Did she take her pills with liquor? Did she choose a granite ridge to build her house on, unaware the gas would kill her? Would it ease her mind to know we have her preserved in poems, like a bee in amber?
“I can never read all the books I want; I can never be all the people I want and live all the lives I want. I can never train myself in all the skills I want. And why do I want? I want to live and feel all the shades, tones and variations of mental and physical experience possible in my life. And I am horribly limited.”
― Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath
"Şu andan başka hiçbir şey gerçek değil ama ben yüzyılların ağırlığı altında boğulduğumu hissediyorum."