I am flushed and warm.
I think I may be enormous,
I am so stupidly happy,
My wellingtons
Squelching and squelching through the beautiful red.
Love, love,
I have hung our cave with roses.
I have let things slip, a thirty-year~old cargo boat
Stubbornly hanging on to my name and address.
I felt the first man I slept with must be intelligent, so I could respect him.
Sylvia PlathFeel 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.
Sylvia PlathStichwörter: writing sickness plath
So many people are shut up tight inside themselves like boxes, yet they would open up, unfolding quite wonderfully, if only you were interested in them."
(Initiation)
Stichwörter: confidence loneliness shyness
We'll act as if all this were a bad dream."
A bad dream.
To the person in the bell jar, blank and stopped as a dead baby, the world itself is the bad dream.
A bad dream.
I remembered everything.
I remembered the cadavers and Doreen and the story of the fig tree and Marco's diamond and the sailor on the Common and Doctor Gordon's wall-eyed nurse and the broken thermometers and the Negro with his two kinds of beans and the twenty pounds I gained on insulin and the rock that bulged between sky and sea like a gray skull.
Maybe forgetfulness, like a kind snow, would numb and cover them.
But they were part of me. They were my landscape.
I felt myself melting into the shadows like the negative of a person I'd never seen before in my life.
Sylvia PlathBut I grow old and I forget your name. (I think I made you up inside my head.)
Sylvia PlathI am I am I am.
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