She usually takes criticism well but in this state of mind she decided it is best not to let any kind of negativity seeps in.
Although, out of pure sadomasochism she did read a couple of them.
"You used to be so sharp."
"Empty words. What happened to you?"
"You lost it!"
They meant well but they didn't know that those were the time when she would be awakened by his midnight calls. And her chest would have that jolt.
And he would be there on her bed.
Those were the time when they ditched the crowd to find a corner to kiss. Intoxicated by each other even without drugs.
He drove her crazy.
And despite the constant churn in her stomach, she felt incredibly alive. And tortured. But alive. Yet tortured.
They felt her, her former audience.The sickest members of the so-called sophisticated society. They, who yearn for that churn yet are too afraid to jump off that boat, they lived their lives through hers. They want that kiss behind that thick, dark curtain. They want that spiralling down to the centre of the earth, that brush of death, that lingering pins and needles, that fiery passion that sent her to heaven and hell and back.
They wish she had not come back from hell.
Because survival is less entertaining than tragedy.
"You could've been the next Sylvia Plath, but you blew it,"
Did she?
Maybe she blew it for them. She blew their fantasies. She aborted the saga way too soon.
But they were
a small price to pay. Nothing, in fact.Because even if she will not leave any legacy in this world, she is loving every minute of her new ordinary, uncreative and uneventful life.
And Sylvia Plath, despite her talent, despite everything, did die unnecessarily too soon.
