Sylvia Plath journal entry

It has been almost 3 months since the start of winter and I haven’t felt this hungry in years. No money, no food. My need to put pen to paper has seemed to skyrocket ever since these rough times begun. I do not know if that is a good or a bad thing though? All my literature has seemed to spill into the hole that resembles my life and every word I write seems to spiral downwards into depression. That is what I am feeling, isn’t it? Two weeks ago I came down with a terrible flue, which I feel, is slowly killing me. Maybe it will kill me, maybe it will end all this sadness and suffering I am going through? Maybe then it will bring an end to this coldest of winters, this frozen trap of despair and s

As I looked into his eyes I felt myself picturing them, swelling and throbbing, bursting tiny blood vessels and filling with thick red blood as I squeezed the last breath of air out of his damned lungs. This child would not have to suffer the way I suffered. See the things I saw. Would be gone with the endless electroshock therapy and psychotherapy with their tedious ‘experts’, shrouded behind their white cloak like overcoats and their clip boards for gathering data as if I were some low level, retarded lab rat. Never. It is done.

The thoughts of my own death are constantly on my mind. My death as well as the death of those two diminutive little bastards. Last night I had a dream of the youngest’s death at my hands, it was as terrible as it was beautiful. When I looked at his face he looked so innocent, hungry and emaciated, but so sweet at the same time. Why should I have let him wait years upon years for a life reminiscent of mine? Why should I let him linger until the day his father dies? Or until something or someone he has that is so perfect in everyway

Some topics in this essay:
Ted QUIET, Beautiful Curled, Diary Tell, , Snowdrop Indian, Sylvia Plath,