2 years ago
Why is it that I find it so difficult to accept the present moment, whole as an apple, without cutting and hacking at it to finds a purpose, or setting it up on a shelf with other apples to measure its worth or try to pickle it in brine and preserve it, and crying to find it turns all brown and is no longer simply the lovely apple I was given this morning?
»Sylvia Plath, The Journals of Sylvia Plath (via beginatthebeginning)
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