Plathitude

Deep into a mess I had never anticipated, which begun only as a severe attachment-connection-love, I am in a land called Plathitude. Sylvia Plath died and left behind much of her life in her followers. I am merely one. One cannot begin to define this plague -- this addiction, this self-identification. She takes over, your mind, your language and then you find she writes letters, among many, one to demons. The demons inside her head. I wonder how she completed hers, her thesis that is.

Time comes to a sudden halt. It no longer takes in the taste of grilled fish in lemon butter sauce or a plate of pasta made with love. I think I will even dare the flight to Goa, rather bravely, owing to my being knee deep in that land of Plathitude. Time stops. Horrors are known, hence fascinating. Writing is curative, yet taxing. Time stops. The earth melts around its latitude and longitude. All that remains is a Plathitude. Concrete, abstract, beautiful, terrifying, fatigued, energised -- a building of binaries, breaking down, slowly. You cannot hear the breakdown, but you are part of it. It is part of you.

You are thinking too many things together and one unified whole holds them together, 'How did she do it? Why did she do it?' Who knows. My friend says, "Briefly, she was possessed."

I have so long agreed. Tonight though, I will not. No, she was not Briefly possessed. She was "Chiefly" possessed.

And we who land up in this surreal mess, swim through the surface of the sky and into the riot of emotions when colours burst, when one reads her. Lives her. 

One begins to live with her. It is scary and loving. The demons are enchanting. Nobody knows who's watching. Whom. In that land called Plathitude. There is no saving. We live. To die. We live. To write. We.