On Sylvia Plath
Today is Sylvia Plath's birthday. She would have been 84 years of age today. Possibly in an other the truth she's living in a cabin some place at the edge of the frosty, dark Atlantic where she paints and composes and keeps a hive or two brimming with honey bees. Alternately perhaps that is the thing that the hereafter looks like for her, not that she trusted in a the great beyond. Is it wrong to wish something on somebody on the off chance that they don't put stock in it? Likely. You don't need to be quite a bit of a criminologist to make sense of that I cherish Sylvia Plath. My blog is named after her lone novel. I have a weaved representation of her on my lounge area divider. I even have a neckband with a small gold engraving of that old gloat about her heart: I am. I am. I am. I'm clearly a quite huge fan. Be that as it may, I'm a fan for various reasons than you may might suspect. I compose a considerable measure about emotional wellness, and I th...