I want to vomit.

I remember watching Sylvia the movie, and thinking how mentally unstable this woman is, to get so frustrated over writing, to be so overwhelmed by motherhood, to be unable to contain her own life in her own hands. Mostly, I wondered why she tore and burnt her work.

Today is the first day, since a long time, that I've spent the entire day at home, from morning to night, not stepping out at all. I have finally, after deliberating for more than a month, found a topic. It is a mammoth task ahead as I lay in bed wondering which voice to write from, the techniques I can use and later sit in front of my laptop, backspacing almost every line that I've typed. After which, I would click on Tools and Wordcount to see how many words I have typed. I walked around my room, the house, opened the fridge, ate things, came back to read whatever little has been written and I think what lousy work I have. And then, I think I want to achieve something, I have to press on, I need to push myself. So, I try to force another line out and 7 minutes later, the Internet browser is up and I am surfing around, finding nothing, but looking at everything else.

I couldn't understand Plath because wasn't writing a reflective and very liberating act? But I feel choked now. I cannot construct two sentences without cringing. I feel as though I have lost something and I am looking under the carpets, on table tops, everywhere for it, knowing that I will only find it one fine day when I'm not looking for it.

Inwardly

In the shelter of my green umbrella, the wind carries a mist that gathers on my face. My toes are wet and from my ankle up towards my knees, my jeans slowly turn a shade darker than it originally was. I feel the moist on my skin, the tips of my fingers are cold to the touch. I held onto the “Play” button, wishing it could turn on at least and when I saw red on the battery life, I hope it would last longer than I could bear silence. On the train, it was very cold, a kind of freeze my burnt skin would have yearned for during the six days of camp. A cold that chills the blue seats, stings the skin and is now deemed undesired by the forlorn. My Ipod is still alive and I do not have to deal with otherwise. I placed the notebook on my laps, pen in one hand, phone in the other, and search for a day that has not been scribbled on. Instinctively, my fingers find a name from the list of people I have to meet up before the semester begins and texts the person. I am surprised the train is still at stations I thought it had passed. When I close my eyes, I think about the girl from Eating Air, a white blouse stained by purple ink, her purple flower speeding across the underpass. She carries an expression I cannot fathom, I feel like a teenager from that movie. When the loud noises from the arcade dies away, when a camp of loud cheering is over, I am in my room, my bed on the right, my laptop in front, my air-conditioner behind. In the room, there is one person, and I am suddenly not used to that. Every free, wakening day is a time to catch up with old friends, while securing new friendships. In the company of so many others, and in the rhythm of left-over silly games from camps, in days that follow where I am pre-occupied, I have forgotten how voids and emptiness can be soothing.