I can’t help myself. Embracing solitude in anxiety and comfort is greater than remaining habitual. But as humans, we do both. Extract the good from the bad. Accept it. And still remain confined to what feels familiar and ours. I felt this conversation clinging to me when I was reading Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar, which is wired to her emotions as my own. Revisiting her The Bell Jar, I found myself taking down notes page after page, not to review, but to deeply connect to and understand her work. And modernity doesn’t meditate on such loneliness the way this book does. These sentences, for example, extract the singular meaning of what makes humans vicious yet so purely beautiful:
“The silence depressed me. It wasn’t the silence of silence. It was my own silence.”
Some of us feel loneliness in the lack of physical contact, some in conversations, and some in emotional and sexual intimacy. And there are some souls that feel it all; all at once and for a long time. This stretch of time refines our sense of being, doesn’t it? And while this happens — we lose things too. We lose our ability to familiarize with words that we used to manifest so conveniently. Words like hope, happiness, responsibility, strength, love, and loss. For me, my loneliness is the embodiment of invisible objects awakened for silent protests of intimacies that go beyond my understanding.
Somewhere in the space between the present and the future, this silence has consumed me. But here’s the interpretation of it: it’s not something that has happened, is happening, or will happen. It’s the kind of lacuna that exists as is as a part of me. If there’s a word for self-reflection — for the feelings that appear and re-appear in a sequence of time — each time it devotes its significance to my own prelude to existing and living: then this is it. My loneliness is my vessel of familiarity, of being erratic, and of having to succumb to cause and effect in the happenings of my life. And suddenly, my own silence occurred to me as if I was thrown back into placid reflections. Reflections as inescapable as breathing and as delicate as dust that I can’t help but embrace time’s inevitable passing. I am sure of what my loneliness means to me — and The Bell Jar reminds of its unwavering significance. What is loneliness? Is it yours as much as it is mine, or is it the measure of what we don’t say? I am not sure — but of what I am is, for me, a breath of fresh air.
Expression I have long considered mortal and short-lived. I have craved withdrawal from myself as much as I have struggled to contract my wants.
Now, I demand the pictures that frame me small. I draw from the imagination that forces me to see the truth. Pure everything till my ends allow.
I choose to complete the circle. Not because I’m alone, angry, or powerless. Because the things that once existed no longer fit to make me brave.
It is the beginning of the end of my romance. I drown with a raging desire for fantasy with a reality that doesn’t understand my love.
A love so kind and filled with unanimity that my identity touches a crack on a spotless land. A stream in the middle of nowhere; flowing in directions that have no boundaries to fill.
To animate this relationship with myself, I must expand my horizons and look beyond finite. Instead of standing under the glass myself to learn my intricacies, I must fall under the millions that shine over me.
Lay under the fire, feel the burn, and become a subject of stillness to comfort the role that society illustrates. How many times this sentiment arises and how many times do I blink and lose sight of it all?
This will make me strong. Make me live. Make me affect. Yes, these emotions are brief, but night comes and the pain makes it last forever.
It’s not easy to raise a girl. She’s fierce. She’s perceptive. She’ll learn the ways of life by how you treat her and how you do not. So let it all go and be her shadow. That’s the only thing you can do.
. . .
Be her shadow. Raise her mind. You won’t know until you do because she’s little known to her ways of life.
Don’t mistake your anger for love that’s not the dress up she knows. Down the road, she’ll say yes from your no she’ll be from your all that you weren’t that’s just how she grows.
Don’t give her playthings dressed up and fair that’ll make her believe she’s not as good as for such flair. Encourage her a talent whatever it may be.
Don’t tell her what isn’t hers rather teach her to dream.
You don’t make her a believer, you make her wise- wise enough to say what is, strong to not string along lies
Perhaps, she’ll never be like you and why would she? She’s a part of nature- like a leaf that falls from a tree.
If it’s in the mirror you’re looking at, what do you see? Do you see flames or do you see yourself as free?
. . .
Mirror mirror on the wall like frames set up to take the fall for all the crimes you committed for all those you didn’t standing against a wall now the edges as sharp as your commitments.
Mirror mirror on the wall like prisoners lined up for the fall crumpled like pages temptations ahoy scaled to seem perfect but no matter what you live for it’s always the image the one you once used as a toy.
Who has written the possibility of what is taught is understood is materialized, every time? On the spontaneity of false notions, the fatalistic desire of the damnable, and everything leading up to that sweet talk we happen to speak to ourselves at least once in our lifetime against self-criticism and faith. Maybe, just maybe, what is taught is never completely understood, but is still materialized, all the time.
. . .
That sweet talk to frustrate me to provoke me into complete destruction.
That sweet talk of times ahead with weapons of my past only to numb me of my head.
That sweet talk of memorable experiences that often lead to disasters let’s just call them strange incidences.
That sweet talk of fighting my demons of avenging from self in the name of freedom.
That sweet talk turning tides every season and with courage it’s only made from my hidden treason.
It means having faith in yourself. And it also means to, unerringly, resist certain natural instincts to find your miniature stone among a million others. For if in the greatest agony, being alone can mean many things: it can be a solacing embrace for some while for those a suffocating asylum. There will be many things that will take you away from you, not only to perform day after day on a stage alongside constant comrades but also to find your sense of quiet and meaning in the world where everything seems perplexed.
I find it unusually satiating that how being alone can take you away from paradise, but at the same time, create one for your own. It means that aloneness is extending equally to tap into your ‘desperate, painful’ and somehow bringing to surface the ‘real, candid’ you. Somehow, from what I see, aloneness is not one thing, but many. It’s not an eye-opener, but merely a kindling of being loyal to you, before anything or anyone else. What does being alone mean? It is that complicated that we don’t understand? Or is it so simple that we can’t believe in it?
Pay your respects it is forgotten now drowning within the shadows my ego forces me to bow.
Starting as a substance to consume, judge, and upset let’s play that game where we follow the practiced steps.
Actions and reactions we’re stuck in the habits of messing the lines and of labeling our tides.
Only when we’re in deep we look at how perfect our wounds are to find out we’re not the ropes the strings or the force we’re just a living and the soul in cages of our cosmetic roles.
Silly, it really is to forget yourself thoughts are things are mannerisms why don’t we break the shelves? become our only ones to break that companion nonsense just for a little while become to become a stone unmoved but defected to inspect.