Sup3rnality

Tonight is also one of those nights. The kind of night when sleep just can’t seem to find you. It’s lost outside, re-occupied with the crickets and the twinkling stars. Time abandons you to the stillness and the silence. And all I have for company is the soft whirring of the fan, supplying me with a gentle breeze, breaking my concentration every once in a while.

I had my Arabic Language exam today, and despite all the confidence I had that it was going to be sort of easy, I was proved. It was tough. I mean, the questions were easy, understandable; but I can’t get the answers to come out right. All I can do now is hope that whatever answer I did put on paper was enough to get me at least a C.

I just finished watching Sylvia, an autobiographical movie of the poet, Sylvia Plath. About her life and death. And truth be told, the movie does little to portray the art of her words, her solemn morbidity. She is made a demented person, detached from life and incessantly paranoid. Her pain is made as though it was called for, as though she deserved it. Why summon pain? There is too much of it as it is in this world. And it is a crime of how cruel irony can be. It is her pain that fuels her inspiration, hence Ariel. “Dying is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well”, Plath claims at the beginning of the story, foreshadowing of what is to come. And again irony bleeds bitter, when the art of death consumes art herself, along with all her unspoken words.

It is silent here. That’s one thing I hate about Seremban. The nights are dead. As though you expect to find a mysterious shadow lurking everywhere you look outside your bedroom window. The feeling of sudden loneliness threatens to envelope you at times like these. Swirling around you, looking for an opening; awaiting a slight bleed of emotion so it could seep into your veins. I try to keep my expression placid, trying to fool them in to returning into the night. And then maybe I could find peace with myself.