I recently rediscovered Sylvia Plath's journal, which I had begun to read last year but never finished (because sometimes life gets in the way like that). But I love when this happens.. I love when I forget about something that I once enjoyed. It gives me the opportunity to fall in love with it all over again.

I deeply admire Sylvia Plath. This woman had beautiful, meaningful, intellectual, and introspective thoughts. 

Here's one:

"God, how I love it all. And who am I, God-whom-I-don't-believe-in? God-who-is-my-alter-ego? Suddenly the turn table switches to a higher speed, and in the whizzing that ensues I lose track of my identity. I act and react, and suddenly I wonder, "Where is the girl that I was last year? Two years ago?... What would she think of me now?" And I remember vaguely Tolstoy's argument about fate and inevitability and free will. As an act recedes into the past and becomes imbedded in the network of one's individuality it seems more and more a product of fate -- inevitable. However, an act in the immediate present seems to be more a product of free will."

Sometimes
life is ridiculous.
I ponder as I sit beside your grave...

This is what will come of me,
what will come of all of us.
We will one day lay in the ground
in a prestigious wooden box
(well, our body will, that is).
And where will the soul go?

So many souls. So many souls that are
gone, going. So many beings - individual,
beautiful, beings that have been
conquered by death. And more to come.

I've grown to hate this part of life -
the part where you're utterly forced
to face the fate before you,
that death is your destination.

I pity those who live but never acknowledge,
never surrender to the truth that we are fleeting.
Their thoughts of what is to come are scarce,
afraid to let their minds wonder, ponder, and question:
"With an impending death,
what will I do with my life?"

this new skin

this new skin
this new skin
this new skin
that I'm in
will take some adjusting,
I suppose.

But I did not ask
for this new skin;
I did not willingly
shed the old skin;
it was ripped off me
as I cried next to
your lifeless body
on the living room floor.

With each tear,
with each touch
of your hand,
feeling it grow
colder and colder,
life as I knew it
was ending.
Death likes to take
sanity along with it,
and skin - involuntarily.

I am not living
my life anymore.
I am living in
a new skin.
A skin with the
absence of my
faith, hope, and love
(as I knew them).
These were ripped
off in death.

this new skin
this new skin
this new skin
that I'm in
is not enjoyable,
but in what other
skin will I live?

This is my fate.