We don’t have much in common really. We live in different worlds. She sleeps in her seashell between Samuel and Fyodor and still uses the word ‘brutes’ to call them. After Dad and Ted, she always does. They don’t mind that much. They know how the world brands words in wrong occasions and she wasn’t an exception. Oh! Well! She was! She had no skin and so it was easier to reach out for the live flesh to scar.
We don’t have much in common really. We live in different worlds. She sleeps in her seashell between Samuel and Fyodor and still uses the word ‘brutes’ to call them. After Dad and Ted, she always does. They don’t mind that much. They know how the world brands words in wrong occasions and she wasn’t an exception. Oh! Well! She was! She had no skin and so it was easier to reach out for the live flesh to scar.
And I stay awake all my life listening to them. I’ve tried very much to throw away everything I’ve read before out of my mind, just for one single night of good sleep. But they are taking me for granted. I’ve let them in once and they’ve brought demons, angels, gods and devils and…Yeah! Sure!…clowns, the most frightening of them all. Now, we live by.
Their voices at night don’t let me sleep. I guess they make love. I become jealous and don’t remember the last time I’ve loved. Was there any at all? They don’t like questions because they are the most extreme questions ever so their lonely psychotic questioning doubtful lines go inside my head and then I am numbed and swooned, but never ever asleep.
Many times, though you never dare to sleep beside any of them, I’ve tried to make peace. And every time like always they come out and after an hour or two of wordy mesmerizing witchcraft, they pick their favorite choice looking closely into my soul. Once picked their choices, there’s nothing left to argue. They cut. They wound. They fight and bite. They would take away my pieces while shouting “Never open a book carelessly again!”
Seems the spell is working. Exactly 18 years before the day I was born, a woman started another self-destructive journey through the words. Sylvia writing Lady Lazarus. One of those crazy pieces which when comes in company of others, ultimately leads her to the oven. But now, she is free. Wandering around the bookshelves, she is making weird friendships with Godot god and the underground guy.
That wasn’t my choice to be born on that day. It was my parent’s. It was all biology. All that stuff we are ashamed off, but are stained with all over. It wasn’t my fault. The noise in my head rises, like pagans voice in most swooning moment of their ritual for the forsaken. It says “But it was your choice to open the book”. The noise shudders and echoes in my cells. So I admit. Waiting for the punishment. I’m through. I got to see the other side now.
“Dying
Is an art, like everything else.
I do it exceptionally well.
I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I've a call.
It's easy enough to do it in a cell.
It's easy enough to do it and stay put.
It's the theatrical
Comeback in broad day
To the same place, the same face, the same brute
Amused shout:
'A miracle!'
That knocks me out.
There is a charge.” – Sylvia Plath, Lady Lazarus.