What
Sylvia Plath
Means to Me...
Oh, so beautiful!
As if Sylvia were I, we are one, sometimes, if not all the time. She is what I one day hope to be. I love her, because I find her helping me in those most helpless moments. Sylvia Plath is MY best friend, and this is why I would have it no other way. I read her in the morning, just a little bit of comfort to counteract the cold outside. Her words are warmth; her words make me worthwhile. She says exactly what I wish I could express, and she does it in the most feminine way. The way that I find things most feminine: VAGUE AND BLUNT! While these descriptions may sound oxymoronic, that is only partial truth. They are her. In life I imagine Sylvia was rather reserved, like me. However, her mind was a much different story, also much like mine. Have you caught the pattern? She was a mother, wife, poet, in order of increasing importance. Yet, she was so real, no matter how much effort she put forth to conceal her labors. Sylvia’s demise is exemplary of the reality of reservation. She shows me how to show myself. What she left for me, her lyricism tells me that I am ok. And, believe me, it’s hard to trust sometimes, but I simply read on. No matter the question, the answer will always be there. Sylvia Plath is what I deem most beautiful in the world. No longer an inhabitant, her editions of words live on after. How I wish I could say exactly what I want, exactly how I want, and to forever be remembered for those bursts of intelligence. I have stopped writing, but deep within I know it’s not deadened me or dead in me. Sleep deprivation, homework, and stress keep me from being the person I wish to surrender. Sylvia’s poem Female Author is what I want for myself. And yet through this all, her insanity has kept me sane. Her screaming insides, help me to adapt to forms I would reject with force. Sylvia Plath has proven to be my friend, through her language I live, and live freely. Because free is what we all wish to be.
