![]() Imagine descending deeper and deeper into someone’s soul extracting fragmentary, broken glimpses of one’s intelligent, ambitious, lurking, and unafraid outpourings. The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath is impenetrable. Perhaps, what words are are a compromise a bargain between who you really are and who you want to be. Perhaps, the writing is you and your only possession. So you continue to flow, even if words no longer serve you, resolve you, pardon you. But you know that if you die, the words die with you. You neglect the body you sacrificed for your writing. You deny your eyes that can see, your ears that can hear, and your mouth that can speak. ![]() You neglect the body and mind that is, in fact, the tangible being. When they don’t, you’re left guessing where the real you is. To a point where you expect the words to flow a certain way. You visualize what it means, give it body, a beating heart, veins, an assimilating spirit. ![]() You’re taught to create a rhythm out of writing. It has structure, direction, and purpose. ![]()
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