Sylvia Plath makes me sick. She was writing more eloquently at age eighteen than I'll be writing at age fifty.
Example: "Words revolve in flame and keep the coliseum heart afire, reflecting orange sunken suns in the secret petals of ruined arches."
But, I do not envy her.
Thankfully, unlike Sylvia, I do not put my hope in words, but rather the substance of Christ who's light can ignite even the darkest human heart.
The quote below came from a collection of her journal entries and letters. I've read through some of them before, but the following always strikes me as ironic:
"With me, the present is forever, and forever is always shifting, flowing, melting. This second is life. And when it is gone it is dead. But you can't start over with each new second. You have to judge by what is dead. It's like quicksand...hopeless from the start. A story, a picture, can renew sensation a little, but not enough, not enough. Nothing is real except the present, and already, I feel the weight of centuries smothering me. Some girl a hundred years ago once lived as I do. And she is dead. I am the present, but I know I, too, will pass. the high moment, the burning flash come and gone, continuous quicksand. And I don't want to die."
Ten years later, Sylvia killed herself by sticking her head in a gas oven.
God, I praise you for giving me hope in the future despite my dying body and a dying world.
Reminds me of the memory verse for The Women's class this week:
"Of old you laid the foundation of the earth, and the heavens are the work of your hands. They will perish, but you endure; they will all wear out like a garment. You change them like raiment, and they pass away; but you are the same, and your years have no end." Psalm 102: 25-27