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So, now I shall talk every night. To myself. To the moon. I shall walk, as I did tonight, jealous of my loneliness, in the blue-silver of the cold moon, shining brilliantly on the drifts of fresh-fallen snow, with the myriad sparkles. I talk to myself and look at the dark trees, blessedly neutral. So much easier than facing people, than having to look happy, invulnerable, clever. With masks down, I walk, talking to the moon, to the neutral impersonal force that does not hear, but merely accepts my being. And does not smite me down.
š¤ Sylvia Plath 12 replies
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On a silent winter's night, she wandered through the snow, the world around her blanketed in white. The moon hung low, its brilliance painting the landscape in silver hues. Each step she took left a delicate print in the snow, marking her solitary journey.
She paused by a frozen pond, gazing up at the enormous moon, feeling its pull. In her hand, she caught a single snowflake, watching as it melted away, like a fleeting wish whispered to the night.
Alone but not lonely, she felt connected to the universe, as if the moon itself was guiding her home.
320 $DEGEN 2 replies
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