I don’t idolise Sylvia Plath like a lot of people think I do. I just empathize or more like I just connect because I feel empathized. There was someone before me who felt the way I do. There was someone before me who knew how sickening it is to be me. It makes me feel like I am not alone in my madness. People rarely understand me or the working of my mind and its illicit affair with my heart. They make me feel abnormal and doubtful but then, when so much of my way of thinking corresponds with the words written by a woman who kept her head in the oven and killed herself at just thirty, I feel strangely normal and understood. Someone, like me, knew how it feels like to fall apart. Fall apart like the rest of the world.
As a child I always thought I was wrong simply because I was different. I have never really felt quite belonged. I wanted to be right; I wanted to be good I wanted to be accepted. I always wanted to be like ‘them’ because no one was like me and it made life lonely. But somewhere within me I was finding it too hard to get rid of me. There was a war within me. I have always felt like a battle field. I am stained by the blood of my own innocence and hope; I am blackened by the deed of my own desires. The conflict between what I want to be and what I am is sinfully eternal. My spirit feels caught in a war zone. It needs to break free. My mind somehow finds in itself to judge its own thoughts. My heart finds in itself to question the depth of its own feelings. My spirit finds in itself to interrogate its untimely death, over and over again. But rarely people fathom this, they seem to not understand my restlessness, despair, self-doubt and self-criticism. They can’t fathom my ricocheting between certainties and doubt. But then there was a woman who knew how it felt to be a victim of introspection.
Sometimes life seems like an endless battle of not falling back to the station where once you had given up on everything to rise up from. I have tasted darkness- no wait-, I have consumed it till it consumed me. I had somehow let it seep into me. Or maybe it was always in me and somehow something disturbed it from its slumber sleep and it took away mine for revenge. I don’t know. And I don’t want to. It was years of counselling, prayers, therapies and pills that finally induced it back to sleep. But I am constantly under this fear of waking it up again. I know how it feels to be terrified of a dark thing that sleeps within you.
I know how it feels to desire things that will destroy you in the end because sometimes my heart misses him a little too much. I can feel the ache. I can feel it breaking. And as it breaks, it punchers my bloody pride and self respect. It is ready to be one of his many lovers. His absence assaults my lungs; I find it hard to breath. The ache from his absence resurrects my dead self. The very core of my being misses him so much that even my mind is ready to forgive him. It misses him so much that it is ready to forget our past. He left me with a void that keeps feeding on our memories.
I once read these lines in The Great Gatsby that Daisy spoke for her daughter, it went something like “I hope she’ll be fool, that’s the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool..” when I had first read this line it infuriated me. A woman is so much more than just that and bullshit. But few days back I found myself wishing the same. If only I was a fool, I would have continued to love him for what my mind had made him up to be.
If only my mind didn’t work. If only it never questioned the truth in his words, if only it never found out his transgressions, if only it never doubted our love, if only it didn’t join the dots to find out how broken we are together, if only it didn’t let others put sense into it, if only my thoughts didn’t cloud my feelings, if only it didn’t question my own intentions, if only it didn’t fear, if only it didn’t calculate my own worth, if only one thought didn’t lead to another, if only somehow it wasn’t confusing, complicated and maddening, if only there was a way out of my mind. Is there?- because I am afraid to be alone with my own mind!
My life seems like a vicious cycle of highs and lows. Sometimes it feels like I can take on the world in just a breath and sometimes the world seems to close on me. I’m either too much of everything or nothing at all. I have tried to find a balance. I still am but my life seems to have a scale of its own. There are times when all I want is blackness and silence because I am simply incapable of doing anything. Everything fades away in to insignificance. I desperately want to do everything but I just can’t find the will, drive and strength. I want to be consumed. I want to cease. But then, there are times when I want everything. It might sound childish, but I do want: theatre, colour, paintings, wine and wonder. And the funny part is I even believe that I can get it. I am simply too high on this borrowed life. All of a sudden there is just too much within me so much so that my mind can’t form words fast enough to sort them and my hand can’t move fast enough to type them.
Like she said, dying is an art, and like everything else she does it quite well. I get that craziness. I can feel it in my bones. Death seems highly romantic to me. I am a romantic till the very core of my being and I can’t help it. I like romance, I like drama, I like the whole of it. I feed on it. I am a sucker for it. It makes me feel alive in a way that only death ever could. there are times when life seems like nothing more than a process of dying and I, a perfect executor! I have contemplated life for so long that it is just impossible to overlook its foredoomed love tale with death.
So you see, I really don’t idolise her, I understand her. I know that weird kind of wildness, that underlying craziness, that incurable despair, that subtle longing to live, that hopeful contemplation of death, pain of unrequited love, weakness of mind and heart, constant prick of fears and unjustified self hate. I know it all, I have lived it all.