Pondering with Sylvia Plath

I want to write some more but I do not really know what to say. How painful it can be for a writer to feel so mute with words. So I took some of my collections of writer's diaries and finger through the pages finding their own words my own. I land in Sylvia Plath's Journal written in Northampton.
I hate myself for having to sit here and be torn between I know not what within me. Here I am, a bundle of past recollections and future dreams, knotted up in a reasonable attractive bundle of flesh. I remember what this flesh has gone through; I dream of what it may go through. I record here the actions of optical nerves, of taste buds, of sensory perception. And, think: I am but one more drop in the great sea of matter, defined, with the ability to realize my existence.
I found these lines highlighted in yellow. I wonder when I highlighted them. The pages are brown now compared to the other journals. The oldest one in my collection is Anais Nin's Diary. I bought it last year at an old book shop during my vacation in Cebu. The book was owned by a Kaethe Ellis and she had written the year 1971.

Pondering. Pondering. Pondering. So much of life unlived. So much of words unread. So much of love unsaid. So much pondering.


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