“Dying is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well. I do it so it feels like hell. I do it so it feels real. I guess you could say I’ve a call.” – Sylvia Plath I was standing still in the hall, all packed and ready to go, the big revolving door […]
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The Silence Of Snow

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“Dying is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well. I do it so it feels like hell. I do it so it feels real. I guess you could say I’ve a call.” – Sylvia Plath
I was standing still in the hall, all packed and ready to go, the big revolving door in the entrance spinned and smacked me in the face. I fell back, dumbfounded, the thing was almost surreal, how change can hit you like that, how at one moment you’re at ease and relaxed, and how you become uncomfortable, detached, and lost the next. Losing someone is just like being thrown out of the hall through that door; as it spins, new people walk into the place, others leave.
I’m an expert in losses by now, and if I may express my true feelings at the moment, there’s no way I could force myself to believe in the new beginnings, and better things are coming mantra. Things always seem to be getting far worse than anyone could imagine, and honestly, I don’t know why do we even get surprised they did anymore. One could, of course, argue this very particular idea with me, saying that you cannot consider a loss what you never really had. Technically speaking, it’s a very good point, but how could I then explain the frail heart, the beating, or lack of it, and this drumming in my ears, the ache that fills my bones, and the kicking in my stomach. All these physical symptoms, have to be grounded, and rooted back to a cause, and the only thing I would think of, is the loss of someone.
For a perfectionist, rejection is usually lethal, the person is already so hard on themselves, they don’t need more peer pressure to get them to hate their own guts. Standing on your side of the world, I couldn’t understand why would someone be hating themselves that much, talking ill about it, and kicking through its best features. What I didn’t realize is, that while I didn’t accept you having these feelings, they were already ripe and grown inside me, ready to be picked at any moment. I didn’t believe that someone would be slightly interested in me as well, and didn’t think much of myself to begin with. I knew I was smart, that much I could manage, but there would always be something missing, something that didn’t make people stick around longer, maybe, just maybe, my soul was lacking something.
I’m very disturbed, and this has to be the worst thing I’ve written. I cannot understand why I blurted out on paper, but compared to what I have inside me, this is no more than the tip of the iceberg, the hurricane crushing my soul, refusing to lash out, this is the silence of snow.
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