Sylvia Plath and I. Part-2.

As I continue reading the book, the tornado of thoughts struck me yet again. I was supposed to be having the time of my life. Basically, I had everything; or should I say, I would soon be having everything I ever wanted. I knew it certainly. But the human mind, never ceases to stop accumulating disturbing thoughts. 

I moved from one thing to another. One fig to another and another and another and another. And as I saw them, right before my eyes, one by one, they started to blacken and lose their shine, they started plopping down and lay lifeless next to my feet. I wondered.. Was that a sign? I didn't know. Maybe, I didn't want to figure what that was.

I resume to The Bell Jar. I had learnt from the previous pages that my mentor, my idol had a similar series of events. But right after that, she had the time of her life  (Remember, it is impossible to fight the urge to know all about the one who inspires you, by now, I knew most of the things about Sylvia Plath.)

Time and again, each line is penned down beautifully. I experienced deja vu to the extreme now. More often than not, I share my experiences immediately with people. But I didn't bother to now, for I knew nobody would understand the intensity I am experiencing. Somethings are better left unsaid, right? '

And then, I ricocheted to the extremes of happiness. I wondered how I could do it. To be quiet and sober a moment and then jump with overwhelming happiness the next second. Is that what neurotic meant? Well, everything was coined a meaning based on some reference, a reference that could have been a mistake. For now, I was content. I knew I was not one among the crowd. Extremity had its own pleasures for me and I had long accepted it.

The monsoon was at its peak. The lashing rains brought back a thousand memories, memories that were washed away in the waves that struck the sands ashore. Sweet nothings. The moment was good, not really happy but good it sure was.  Most of all, the summer had ended. And,  I was grateful. 

And then, I read this -

“I liked looking on at other people in crucial situations. If there was a road accident or a street fight or a baby pickled in a laboratory jar for me to look at, I'd stop and look so hard I never forgot it. I certainly learnt a lot of things I never would have learnt otherwise this way, and even when they surprised me or made me sick I never let on, but pretended that's the way I knew things were all the time.” 

I smiled. I smiled. I smiled. Even as I'm typing this, I smile.  That was a part of me. 

At about this point, I felt peculiar. I looked around me at all the rapt little heads with the same basic plan and view. I felt suffocated. How could everybody fade into an indifferent personality even after being highly-qualified ( whatsoever that meant) and having the gift of life. I no longer felt belonged. I longed for a different atmosphere. 

There I was, yet again, juggling back and forth between deep thinking and heartfelt laughter. The last thing I wanted was infinite security, to be played at or be a place from where the arrow shoots off. I wanted change and excitement and to shoot off in all directions myself, like the coloured arrows from the Fourth of July rocket. I needed to be insane; I was deep down. But a little voice kept piercing me that you had to be rich to be insane. 

The one thing I was good at winning scholarships, hearts and smiles, and that era was coming to an end. I looked at the drew drop on the window pane, shinning brilliantly with all of what reflection, refraction and total internal refraction had done. I gazed at it, hoping it would tell me what to do, it had lost it's patience and it trudged down and vanished right before my eyes.  'See you', I said. And then ,the pages of the book fluttered in the wind and decided to pause at a page which said, 'I closed my eyes and listened to the old brag of my heart. I am. I am. I am.' I smiled for the umpteenth time. 

I love you Sylvia Plath. I pity those who termed her a depressed poet for she was a literary brilliance, magically comparing life and everyday-articles and wooing her readers. Therefore, continues my urge to know all about her. 

Sylvia Plath and I. Part-1.

I was getting worried about becoming too happily stodgily practical: instead of studying Psychology for instance or singing or tidy my table --- I go make a cup of coffee, or slide out to notice the clouds, or ponder about the electromagnetic spectrum and it's beauty. Whoa, I said to myself. You will escape into domesticity and stifle yourself by falling head-fast into a bowl of cookie batter.

And just now, I pick up Sylvia Plath's novel, "The Bell Jar." And she works off her depression over fighting the urge to travel to far off lands, for she felt suffocated at the thought of staying at a place for over 19 years, over Ted Hughes, (One person, I most hate) and still moves to New York and cooks sausage and breathes. Bless her. I feel my life linked to her, somehow.

Right from reading her poem, 'The Mirror' to following her works ceaselessly. I can still hear her voice in my head, that precious voice of hers that read her own poem; Daddy. The thought of which sends a shiver down my spine. But her suicide, I felt I was reduplicating myself in the cold monsoon of 2014. Only I couldn't drown. I suppose, I'll always be over vulnerable, slightly paranoid.

I was afraid of getting old. I was afraid of adulthood. Spare me from cooking three meals a day-spare me from the relentless cage of routine and rote- I want to be free-free to know other people and their backgrounds-free to move to different parts of the world so that I could ponder upon the customs, morals and standards besides my own. I want to think, I want to learn, I want to be hurt, I want to be cherished, to be omniscient. I want to be able to do a lot of things. But oh, I cry out loud silently. I am strong. But to what extent? I am I. The wires in my head had short-circuited long ago.

I advanced towards The Bell Jar. I played through the pages. The scent of a library book, a mixed scent, agitated by passing through hundreds of hands, worn-out yet beautiful. It tugs at my heartstrings. I want to own the book. All of Sylvia Plath's books. Are the coincidences listening? After all, everything in life was a coincidence, that is what I wanted to believe.

I stop at a random page somewhere in the middle of the book. I'm stunned. A chill down the spine yet again. Just one difference, now I had goosebumps too. I found my eyes constantly clinging to a paragraph. My thoughts had been penned down there. I felt happy. I wanted to be her. I wanted to be her. For once, both the mind and the heart wanted the same thing.

" I want to live and feel all the shades, tones and variations of mental and physical experience possible in life."- Sylvia Plath.

I spent my days listening to her read out her poems in absolute brilliance. And then, a documentary on her. And then, her books. And then, her interviews. And then, her personal life. And then, her fears. And then, her interests. And then, it continued. The window on my left let in a cool breeze on this cold-monsoon evening. That didn't distract me either. I was listening to a classic. I was silent. All my senses could notice was her works. I continue reading the book.. I know this woman. Some how. Her gaze is known. I didn't know how or why.