Bell Jar, Sylvia Plath and I

The Bell Jar, Sylvia Plath, and I

“Suicide does not kill people, depression does.”

The world appears free. People move with their daily chores. Someone is laughing in a street corner, someone else is chatting with a girl nearby. A couple is seated at the table, enjoying drinks, and talking about something; the girl laughs, and by the look of it one can imagine he just said something funny to her. Some people just whiz by on their bicycles, chatting. And a couple passes, hand in hand, talking to each other in low voices that is just not audible.

The lawn changes, transformed by the blades of grass that shine with the sun and swing with the wind. The leaves of the trees change colour as the seasons pass by. People change the expression written on their faces with the emotions that beat within their hearts. There is love, there is hatred, there is understanding and there is ego; there is hope and there is care, there is also dream and there is frustration. There is bitterness but there is also the satisfaction of victory.  But, but…

Bitterness is not a medicine, loneliness is not a cure of internal suffering. A good company is neither replaceable nor can be found with searching: it needs to happen. The hands of time and the rhythm of the ticking must match in harmony for the correct alignment to take place. And when that does not happen one loses the right path, one loses hope, one loses the purpose of life.

I am caged within the confines of space-time, and my wanting or not wanting, wishing or not wishing, trying and struggling produce no meaningful meaning. Emptiness remains emptiness, bitterness remains bitterness, and loneliness behaves adamant. 

But what appears on the surface and what feels within are two completely different things. The inside and the outside seem to merge together as if in a continuum whereas the invisible wall that separates the two is always present there, as an invisible barrier for the continuum to continue both within and without. And that is the bell jar.

And while Sylvia Plath confessed that she attempted suicide more than once, more than even two or three or four or five times, I have tasted  that desperation only twice. And if I choose to pick up a third time, it will be over, I know for sure.

It is just an easy comparison: a fly trapped inside an inverted glass perhaps might feel the same way as a human trapped within the confines of circumstances beyond recognition, beyond comprehension, and beyond the power of one’s influence. Despite the unending struggles one has made, and one is still making, many things remain that simply do not change: some wounds never heal, some broken pieces can never be glued back together. And while Plath imagined her life confined within the transparent walls of a bell jar, I find mine as fluid and dynamic as the fish in fast running water. She could not escape out into freedom, I am finding it impossible to swim against the currents of bitterness. That is perhaps humanity in-between us that makes us the same: similar experiences shared across the stretch of space and time within the influence of similar circumstances. And just like a caged bird, I want to be free just as Sylvia Plath wanted to be, just as water always wants to be… and then escape. It does not matter where, but what counts is if…

[The image of the first edition of "The Bell Jar" by Sylvia Plath has been taken from wikipedia, is fair use under United States copyright laws...  https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Bell_Jar and the direct link is https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Belljarfirstedition.jpg .]

Faces of Emotions

Faces

Emotions are fluid: they melt, they flow, they solidify, they harden... It all reflects upon the conditions we find ourselves in, the experiences we gather as life progresses. Sometimes we cry, sometimes we get angry, sometimes, we feel pain, bitterness, angst... and sometimes we really feel over the moon. Sometimes we show it, sometimes we don't. Some of our faces reflect the emotions swelling inside us, some of us don't, and yet it is universal: suffering is what makes our emotions flow. We do not intend to, consciously, but subconsciously we let it go, we let it express on the outside.

We let it flow, we let it drop, we let it freeze, we let it pour, we let it drip, one by one, we let it swell, splash, crack... against the inevitable in a fit of bitterness, we let it melt again, and again...

We yearn for something, we hope, we dream, we plan and yet we live our lives without choices: life is the strange bird which flies with the wind. It knows how to beat its wings but it cannot go against the flow. No way! It cannot be dictated, directed, channelized, controlled: it just happens. The flow then, in a sense, dictates how its wings beat. If there were such a market where emotions could be sold and bought, if it was really possible for such a market to exist, what emotions would you have? What would you choose? What would you go for?? Which one would you want to feel???How much would you pay? How much would you give, how would you bargain, on the Emotic Street of life???

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FACES

(7 September 2004)

In the market place

where everything is sold

beyond all bargain

are faces on display –

rich face and poor face,

glad face or sad one,

dark or light, young or old

stare wide and plain.

State your choice

and take your way.

Which one would you buy?

Beyond the crowd

of ignorant men

away from the scene

are faces on display –

hard face and soft face,

loathsome or lovely,

artless or guilty, humble or proud

inquire again and again.

as you choose

so you pay.

Which one would you buy?

In that canvas of life

where appearance deceives

and sympathies vary

behind the black curtain

are faces on display –

dead face and live face,

sweet face or bitter one,

welcome or hostile, pleasant or angry;

Which one would you love?

Which one would you see?

Here in this market 
come and buy me, me, me! they say.

Hopeful or forlorn, beautiful or ugly,

familiar or foreign

faces to play –

false one or true face

wait upon, wait again

for another bargain;

take your pick

and carry away.

Which one would you buy?

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(This composition first appeared in the anthology Dandelion in 2006. The one appearing above has been slightly edited and altered for the purpose of clarity. Copyright reserved with the author.

The image used in this post is a photo montage created by the author using some of the author's google plus followers. The final image has been flipped and inverted. The author thanks and apologizes at the same time for including some and not including others in the montage due to space constraints. No harm intended in any manner, whatsoever.)

Healing The Heart

Healing The Heart

I am really tired: tired of the way life has to be dragged on. I sometimes wonder whether it was a really bad day, a really bad hour, a really bad time I was born to feel like this. Maybe the planets, the constellations were misaligned exactly at the hour I was born. I really wonder at the mysterious forces that have not worked for me, ever, the way that would have made me feel otherwise.

What would I do to change? Hhhmmmmm....!

I ponder upon various outlets from this impasse. I don't really like to live here: I would love to quit. Let all things be as they choose to be: I would really love to hit the road!!!

I calculate. How much would it take for me get a bicycle and travel inland? To places? To people? Never staying at one place, always on the move... To feel the pulse of life, to feel the beat, the rhythm, the music that I have lost far behind... If I were to die on the road, it would just be fine. I would have to anyway, somewhere. And if I lived, and if my mind were to change somehow, return back to where I sprouted out from?

Hhhmmmmm.....!! It wouldn't be simple, it wouldn't be easy. A year's journey would mean six months going one way and six months getting back, if I survived the ordeal, the quest of life, that is. And I calculate, that one year's journey would, could, cost anywhere between 10 thousand to 12 thousand... The visa fees, the return expenses, the roadblocks, the detours... the breakdowns and the unexpected... A lot of discouragements along. Yet I aim for the lower figure, of course, and still...

Are there no encouragements?
Of course there are, sure. But it depends on humanity.
It is quite strange to know there are hundreds of different people but only two types of humanity. Those who have cannot offer much and those who don't are simply unable to. It is poverty deep inside the soul, not a physical one, that determines who is who. Yes, I need to go searching in the most unlikely of places to find a good one that really matters. Here is an analogy: if I go into a bank I cannot find any money, for that I need to go to the street. I need to go to the poorest hut to find the richest of people that really matter. And that is what I intend to do. But... 

But... That still would be an unimaginable sum of money; an awful lot... in US dollars.

Haven't counted even a quarter of that sum in my life, carried far far less, ever, seen only a fraction.

How old am I? Well, I have pretty much passed the mid point of my life, I guess.

But the wound needs to be healed, the broken pieces need to be glued back together... The tears need to be stitched and sewn, fixed in some way. The heart has to be brought back to look like a heart, to feel like one. 

Stupid fellow! It's the bike that needs to be bought first, and the gear...!!

Forget it. Not possible.

What then?

Why not share the pieces if I can't find the whole?

Why not feel the heart of humanity if I can't feel my own?

Why not be human?

Why not beat the drum if I can't play the music?

As long as I can. As far as I can afford to. What I have, if I have.  The basic is there: some rice, some lentils, a few spoonfuls of tea, about a cup of sugar, about the same amount of salt, pepper, turmeric, ginger, garlic... a bed, a room, a stove, about a quarter of a cylinder full of gas, a few pots and pans, some plates... a few books, even. The PET bottle that originally contained a familiar cold-drink is empty: sorry, no cooking oil. Most often, there is not enough water except for drinking and it isn't significant how often I take a bath: basically I can go days more, even a week or two, than usual. Does it matter if I smell a little? No...! We all do, and if I can find a spray or deodorant then it can do the trick and save the uneasy feeling.  Somedays I go hungry. But if you can adjust, you can probably find almost anything...

Interested? Come then, and be a part of me, my life. Give some (don't be ashamed, it's a choice, not a compulsion), take some (feel free), we can get along, I suppose. We laugh if we can, if we can't we cry. As long as you are human, as long as I am human...  

May be you know how to stitch broken pieces, how to glue them back together, how to sew... Probably I can fix my heart in your company, if you don't mind.

My couch is available on humanitarian grounds.

What do you say?

(This photo, by George Hodan and sourced from publicdomainpictures, reflects the difficult-to-understand yet universal human symbolism signifying submission, help and forgiveness... No religious bias intended except that of humanity. http://www.publicdomainpictures.net/view-image.php?image=54433&picture=praying-hands )

The Mirage of Happiness

The Mirage of Happiness

[Preface 

It is indeed very difficult, almost impossible, to come back from the dead and it has taken a rather long time. Just a few days back someone had suggested, "You need to 'hook things out', you know... if you can't get it with straight fingers."

"Never learnt to bend (my) fingers like the politicians. Now at this stage in life when my hairs are greying over....," I told him. He giggled but then suddenly I brightened up. "You know sometimes I feel like I'm being lured to the end of the line. One day the Big Angler, instead of finding the bait gone, shall surely hook me up like a minnow or a carp. That'll be the only hooking up I'll experience now, I think," I added.

He burst out to his seams with laughter.

] 

...

Enchained, paralyzed, restricted, caged... I live at the end of a blind alley, if I live at all.

Do I cry over it? 

I do. What else is left there to do except lament over things and events that could have taken a far better turn and might have made heaven possible but instead chose not to.

Is there independence? 

No way! The Bird of Freedom is enchained.

Is there hope? 

A tiny flickering of light is still visible far, far away. That's all.

How do I live then? 

Moment to moment just as I die with every beat of my heart. I don't kill myself outright. I feel like I need to suffer what others can't.

Why? 

I don't know. I just feel it in my head, feel it deep inside.

How can I continue like this? 

There are dozens of ways I cannot continue along. What remains in the end is the only possibility, no? The wind can flatten me down to the ground, crush me. But it won't break the chain, carry me off. And so I remain... where I have been chained.

I oftentimes pull the hairs out of my head, bite hard and swallow harder. It's unfortunate that I haven't gone insane so far but that would have been better I suppose. And yet to preserve my sanity I keep thinking about the possibilities: what would I do if I had all the things that you have? All the opportunities, the doors as well as the windows?

And perhaps that makes me who I am.

Do I not worry? 

I certainly do. If humanity were not to worry about things that could go wrong, then progress would have been impossible and everything would have gone backwards in time. Neither mistakes could have been avoided, nor disasters averted.

There are regrets, sure. When limitations confine you, there are fewer options to pick up, possibilities get reduced. Oftentimes one just has to face it all and suffer hopelessly. But perhaps that is what it is that makes a man(kind). No ego, no pride... Just a humble being with profound realizations that there are many things that cannot ever be changed, many events that cannot ever be undone, changed or chosen.

And these are integral parts of life. And that is one good thing that has to be lived, dull or colourful. As it comes. The question is not what comes but how one faces it. Yes there are certainly ways to stand and face the tribulations like a man(kind).

So, even if it be just glasses of water, let's clink them and celebrate. At least for a moment, at least for the time being, and as long as we're together. 

Cheers!

[The passage or passages presented above are taken from a book by the author. The emoticon has been taken from google search and I hold no copyrights to it: it belongs to the original creator and/or copyright holder who I do not know. It has been used here for purely literary/educational purposes. When claimed, credits shall be duly given/made to the rightful owner.]

Desperation

...
'S*** you, man!' he expressed his feelings.
'No need to,' I told him, 'I already have been.'
'F***!' he swore.
 ...

A long time ago, a boy stood on a chair, looped his vest on to the bamboo rafter of the ceiling in his room, and tied it around his neck. Then he kicked the chair and hung there for a brief second. The sweat-eaten cotton of his vest gave way and he fell hard on the floor below, narrowly escaping the edges of the fallen wooden chair.

But he got a rather painful bum that made him weep without opening his mouth. When he got through it after a while, he cursed rather bitterly. There was no rope he could use.

The pain lasted the following couple of days.

Then a day came when he drank out of a toilet cistern. 'Shit!' he cursed after letting his stomach cool down a bit. He had no money to buy water in the concrete jungle, and there was no friend.

The next day, he had no money to pay for the books even though the exams were just around the corner. He could not prepare himself to have them taken. He said quit. Then he cursed again.

Then the next day, he went to mix concrete with a shovel. The landlord made him dig a big seven feet deep hole in the ground after the work hours were already over. No extra payments. He got drenched in the end, and when he got out of the hell-hole his legs felt shaky, and his back ached. He cursed himself this time, and did not say a word.

After that, he got a series of electric shocks so much so that he now could sense it in his fingers even though it was not there. He got thrown from a standing drum while chipping the walls and fitting wires, catching one of his fingers between the metal rim and his own weight. The finger went numb that evening. Then it swelled like a sausage. The hand felt like fire the next morning. Then he got a fever that evening, and needed to swallow the bitter-tasting paracetamol tablets.

It did not stop!

The nail turned blue, still feeling like a red hot ember and then after about three days the pain subsided a little. Then the nail went dead.

'Damn! He cursed just the same.

The nail took three months to fall off like a dead leaf in winter.

Then the devil came; once, twice, many times over. And there was no money to buy the medicine that could have lead it to another path. He nearly went mad.

It was just about the time when one of his friends committed suicide, hanging by a shoe-lace from a window railing.

'F***!' He cursed that evening.

But it stopped by itself, appearing only once or twice a year; but when it came it came with blood all the same. Bright red streaks that hurt, and the sight of it frightened him a lot.

Then one day, it felt like it was too much. He had read a book before, but this time it meant for real. He swallowed ten tablets with water, there being no money to buy a drink that would have made it easier.

That evening his head started to buzz like a hive of bees. His ears went crazy like hell, buzzing things all the time into his head.

Night buzzed, and the sleep buzzed. Morning buzzed, afternoon buzzed, and the evening buzzed, too. His heart pounded and slowed a little, but did not stop. 'Shit!' He cursed from time to time, in his hazy sleeps as well as his foggy mornings and afternoons.

The buzzing took away hunger and he did not feel like eating a thing. It continued for more than a week. And then it left only a horrible experience behind.

 'Shit! Shit!' He continued cursing.

The buzzing would just as appear and disappear from time to time over the rest of his life. And he would keep cursing.

...

'I don't believe you,' he said.

'You don't need to,' I told him. 'What happened, just happened.'

'Damn!' he retorted his disbelief again in the end.

 

Midnight's Allegory

[This blog-post is completely personal and has been taken from my own experience. It does not in any way indicate to any relationship with any person, living or dead, except that it is completely an allegory used to express my own personal experiences. Friends from my ever-growing circle have also appreciated my poetic compositions rather sincerely and I have been unable to refrain from giving them a taste from a completely different corner of my heart. Part of an on-going work of poetic expressions/compositions, I hope I shall be able to bring this piece together with others out in a book-like format, probably on amazon/kindle as it is my only platform/option of choice. Yes, heartache has been a rather genuine and wonderful fertilizer for creative outlets in my life's experience. My support for all of you stands in that wild river of bitterness you have experienced. See, whether mine is in confluence...]

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Talk about bliss, a burden you have always felt like.

O wild weed, of life, what pleasure are you?

Thrice I had hung on the edge; thrice you shied away.

O friend among friends, what measure are you?

A Guest of Love, you can’t be shunned away; you can’t be sold!

O dark net of miracles, what treasure are you?

Felt like fire from hell, you have, felt like a poisoned arrow.

Far, far deep you have cut; what razor are you?

Of joy you haven’t carved a line: so blank a book, what eraser are you?

The meadow that might have been isn’t any green today; what grazer are you?

No turning back, no running away! What game of chance, what wager are you?

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You can read another allegory, of beauty and of love this time, at
http://fallencorner.blogspot.com/2013/07/dandelion-my-first-book.html

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[This composition was actually done during the midnight hours of the 9th of October, 2013. I could not sleep that night. There was a visit from the Devil for the second time in the last 3 months, and I just remained tossing and turning in my bed. It was too much to bear. I sketched these lines and the morning I got out of bed, I was drenched in sweat as if I had taken a shower! It really felt painful, and horrible... As this is a part of my life's experiences, the work is copyright protected. Midnight's Allegory is actually a series of on-going compositions by the author. © 2013, Subarna Prasad Acharya. Reviews need to be accompanied by references to the author.]