Sylvia Plath
Reading Plath’s journal, sitting on the rocks of Jelly Bean Creek, I was inspired in such a rare and unique way. Reading her words of sadness and beauty, I felt as if I were reading my own thoughts, dressed in expression I can’t seem to muster.
I have never felt so understood by someone, and yet she will never know or understand me.
Is it arrogant to say how similar my thoughts are to the ones written by Plath’s own hand?
Her innocence and her eagerness to be a good person were surprising to me. She seems stable, level headed, thoughtful.. self critical - yes, but not the manic-depressed person I expected. My own journals are filled with far more angst and anger, whining and self-pity. She seems to control her words like a trained circus animal, yet in a way that liberates her thoughts, giving them freedom to inhabit, so beautifully, a page.
“Nothing is real except the present, and already, I feel the weight of centuries smothering me. Some girl a hundred years ago lived as I do. And she is dead. I am the present, but I know I, too, will pass. The high moment, the burning flash, come and are gone, continuous quicksand. And I don’t want to die.” - Sylvia Plath , Journal - July 1950
