Friday, January 27, 2012


"'It always has to end, doesn’t it? We always have to separate.'
'Yes,' I said.
He was insistent, 'But it doesn’t always have to be that way. We could be together someday for always.'
'Oh, no,' I told him, wondering if he knew it was all over. 'We keep running till we die. We separate; get further apart, till we are dead.'
He has no home; he is unhappy. I could be the source of his joy, the refuge of his life. And I can only pass on.

Something in me wants more. I can’t rest. Without emotion I let him kiss me. The evening had been lovely, complete. I had been alone more than I could have been had I gone by myself. The poor guy; there is no one nicer.

Perhaps someday I’ll crawl back home, beaten, defeated.
But not as long as I can make stories out of my heartbreak, beauty out of sorrow."
-Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath


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