Letters to Sylvia Plath: #1

Dear Sylvia,

I don’t know who you are, and a few days back I couldn’t have cared less. All it took was a quote, a few words strung together in a fashionable manner, those few words resonated with something deep within me. A quote that ever so quietly, ever so passively, brought me to your world. Your world of emotions, of sadness and madness. All it took was that one quotation that made you a part of me.

You and I, we are very much alike. Or so I’ve been deducing from your work. You have become my anchor, Sylvia. I know not how you pulled through when you did, and I don’t know why you gave up when you did, and I guess I’ll never know. But that’s not the point. No, that’s not relevant, not for now.

What is making me lose my sleep is, how could not one person notice the sadness, the absolute misery in your life. And how did you become as self destructive as every artist is made out to be. Was Ted Hughes really the reason why you died? Or was it your Daddy? Did your heart never heal from the death of your father? Did that scar remain, of course it did. Your work proves it did.

Is it possible you made certain decisions so you could feel closer to your father? Of course you did, your work shows that. Did you marry Ted because he could most definitely fuel that rage you felt when your father died? Did he keep scarring you, much the same way as your father?

What did happiness feel like to you? Did you feel truly happy when you got the Fulbright scholarship? Were you truly happy when Frieda was born? When were you truly happy? Did you ever feel like you were floating in the high blue sky? Did your professional excellence helped you hold on for a while longer? Or was it your kids?

I can’t imagine the hurt you spent all your life forgetting. I can’t begin to understand how you even held on to life, even after such acute pain. When we, today, we frail humans would give up on life if we get a bad score on a test. There is so much to life, so much more pain, so much more ecstasy. Were you ever ecstatic, Sylvia? Did you ever have a happy dream? Did it persist, despite the cyclone of pain?

Your life feels like an enigma to me. I am reading your work, and though you help me float right above the surface of calm blue ocean, you are also pulling me deep inside it. The ocean of numbness, helplessness, but all of that would never amount to the kind of mess your life became. I want to read your journals, I want to read every word that you ever strung together to form a meaningful sentence. I want to read it even if it isn’t meaningful because for some reason, I believe I can understand you. I am beginning to try and fathom your thoughts from an intellectual stand point, but I already feel we are one from a personal standpoint.

I want to know what tricked you, what made you tick, what you couldn’t understand. I want to spend my days curled up trying to make sense out of your words.

In spite of the obsession, I truly know I won’t end up like you. We might actually be poles apart, but I want to spend my days figuring that out.

Oh and Sylvia, I truly believe that you deserved so much more than what you were dealt with. We all are. We all deserve complete stories. Maybe that’s why I came across you. To find my story, to find myself.


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