Letter to Plath

Dear Plath,

My younger soul was fascinated by your courage to express and I was intrigued by your story. I could feel the fire in you through your poetry. I have learnt to hate with a passion and to not fear death. For when it doesn't come, I can still crave for it. Now when I am a few years older, I have started thinking about you again. In my lonely hours under the shower I chant in whispers, "Dying; Is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well." I have died several deaths. One time with a broken heart and all other times I have done it myself. But I left no visible scars. No one knew. I stare at glittering waters of the river shining gold during the sunset. My mind feels like diving in. Not because I love water or swimming. But because I can't swim. I imagine how would it be to have a watery grave. But I realize they would take me away and put me elsewhere. People would be scared and unknown people would hold my wet body. Children would be scarred for life. So I only stare.

Plath, I wish to be like you. When heartbreaks don't feel like anything to me and my thoughts fade with my unfocused gaze. When blood becomes a mere colour and a burn, a wound that leaves a mark. When pain and ache are not sensible anymore. When my mind calculates years, months, weeks, days, hours, minutes, seconds and breaths. Till I take my last. Honestly, I do it now. Not all the time but very frequently. Those who hurt me, I look at them and say in my mind, "I'll be gone. I'll be gone soon and you'll not find me to hurt me again." It's thrilling to understand how one day I'll be an empty space in someone's life. Some will remember me with love and some with hate. Those who won't remember with either of the two will still remember me. And there'll be someone like me, who will want to be me like I wanted to be you. Till then it is a long way to walk on pebbles barefeet. A path sometimes laid with thorns. The thorns that came with the roses I once craved for. The thorns that prick and bring blood yet make me more adamant to keep walking. I'll walk till I reach the edge from where I'll fly down to hell if there's no place in paradise for me with you.

Wait for me, Plath. Till then wait.