Nothing is real except the present, and already, I feel the weight of centuries smothering me. Some girl a hundred years ago once 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 donโt want to die.
Sylvia PlathIf you pluck out my heart To find what makes it move, Youโll halt the clock That syncopates our love.
Sylvia PlathI am but one more drop in the great sea of matter, defined, with the ability to realize my existence.
Sylvia PlathThe moon, too, abases her subjects, but in the daytime she is ridiculous. Your dissatisfactions, on the other hand, arrive through the mailslot with loving regularity, white and blank, expansive as carbon monoxide. No day is safe from news of you, walking about in Africa maybe, but thinking of me.
Sylvia Plath