Sylvia Plath. I do not know what emoticon to follow up to this name, a simple smiley, an exclamation, an ellipsis. I think I owe her an entire lifetime. Her suicide does not sadden me, nor does her betrayal anger. Her failure makes me a smile a bit in fact. And her poetry, oh her poetry...episodes of life through the window of mind. I have a strong belief I know her, personally. I do. I also believe I love her in a way she would love to be loved. Perhaps I know her because I feel her, I understand. She does not come across as someone I should read and feel the power of the language. Only with her it is so that I enjoy ruthlessly, images come alive. There is a connection uncanny, even she cannot deny.
Birthdays never mean much to me. The celebrations come across as rather unnecessary. But on this one day I wish that you were alive and I made you a lunch or dinner and gifted you a notebook and a bottle of ink. And spend some time cooking you a nice lunch or just share a fulfilling cup of coffee, play with your children and listen to your many heartbreaks.
Happy Birthday, Sylvie. Your suicide does not sadden me because I know exactly why you did so, nor does your being betrayed anger me, because I know what happened thereafter, and your failures, they just brought out the diamond from graphite. And your poetry, oh your poetry...episodes of life through the window of the mind, they help me survive. Eventually, if you were alive, I may not have done anything of the above, but may be I would be the one who would help you do it nine times by now...You do not inspire or encourage, you live along, Sylvie. Thank you for being. One tight hug.
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1 comment:
:) :)
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