Illusion

By A

Illusion:


Dear T,


Today in my plain life I watch the snow-white Pentland Hills all day long. In real life I look at my soul and feel a profound sense of guilt, having broken off from eighteen years of family life, leaving my son and husband behind. I have tears in my eyes thinking of them and of the huge burden of boredom that I need to carry on in my everyday life. Will I ever be able to save my near and dear ones? Who will be my purgatory … I need someone who takes care of my soul, so that I can redeem myself from this guilt complex. While I experiment with symbolical cowardice, I examine how a coward can turn into a robust person as well, when violence stops.


I wish to exploit over-bullying creatures in my environment and treat them like the mud on shoes. Relatives come and visit me regularly with fruits and some home-cooked food. They always discuss decadent TV series and gossip about each other. I cannot bear their company any more. Of course, they fear me and my inner spiritual strength, even if I am now but a street beggar against their huge wealth and achievements. Slowly I am being transformed into a monster who can rule these spiritual beggars. They boast of their money and achievements and I just brush them off the top of my shoes using my philosophy. I know they fear me, but I am disgusted as they attack me with their mental impoverishment and consumerism. I am finding myself without any kind of fear whose only solid support is death - the ultimate truth. I am there, can’t you see me? I was in the mountains. I was behind the curtains. I took some marijuana and felt like a stone, they included me in their dance, and I danced like the Shiva. Darkness in my heart and mind cannot make me perish from the surface of the earth. I digest rain and open his skull for the wind to eat the worms from his cranial nerves. The famous publisher will publish my book. Nothing happens in my daily life. No magic, nothing. Is this a barren life?


I was never lonely since I was thirteen. Surrounded by gorgeous, good-bad-ugly boy-friends and friends, I was a happy person. I still remember the summer of 1986, when one boy with green eyes visited me in the afternoon every day. I remember our adventures in the streets of Calcutta under the skull-piercing sun … we rang your door-bells … we ran and ran and ran.


Grey chimneys mock me. Street lampposts cannot suppress their naughty smiles. The room is well-lit. I become nostalgic about the image which I always see, of which I have never spoken. My childish fingers can no longer keep hold of the warm curry in a bowl. It dropped on the white floor. Splattered and crashed. It is in my mind, in the same silence, amazing. It is only the reflection of myself in which I take delight and can transform my sadness into a masochistic pleasure. In a way my guilt complex was amusing. It never occurred to me that, in my ex-husband’s silence and in my nightmares, there might have even been the reprimand of my life.   


These days, I cannot consume alcohol. To come out of my depression I am searching for something which can immerse me down and down and down. I hunted out films that can elevate my moods. I am losing my life in the hands of these excellent films - am I becoming rich, at least culturally? My father once told me that I would be a gorgeously poor person, however, culturally I would procure so much of culture. What did he really mean? Did he consciously repeat Bourdieu’s philosophy that I would possess vast amounts of culture, but I won’t be able to pay my mortgage or food bill? Am I going to die a pauper like that Irish writer Pádraic Ó Conaire? I would not mind at all if I can die with some of the best writings in my pocket which you may print in the future … or even some rotten bananas … I am obsessed with my poor church mouse image…


Some time back, in November 2014, I went to visit Auschwitz-Birkenau - the largest of the German Nazi concentration camps and extermination centers. I went there with the famous Glasgow girls. It was an adventure mixed with utter sadness, frustration, fear and a kind courage which can come only under desperate situations … we were surrounded and almost arrested by the Polish Police, not for any rebellious act but for not validating our tram tickets out of sheer ignorance. We argued with them in vain; some local people tried to help us to come out of the situation … ultimately, we were heavily fined … this incident gave me the feeling of a dead, morbidly silent world. This same dreadful world appeared often in my nightmares where I was falling into an abyss. I lived inside a canopy of death. I became that woman who chooses to walk alone to keep her promise to her solitude which even the devil fears. They burnt all my writings and creations. Women began their whispers, shrieked and cried. Even the master said: “you cannot remain, you are not destined to follow your dreams”.


After my collapse, my partner found my letter in the familiar bed. I wrote to my husband: “Dear A, I am completely submerged in illness. Icy mountains and freezing cold admit no escape. My depression endeavour to crush these fears and to fortify myself for the divorce trial. I allow my thoughts, unchecked by reason, and dare to fancy my gloom. I will hire an ice raft to take me to end of the Universe. I do not even know where to start arranging my things, or even if there was anything to arrange. I wish to be a rebel with my vulnerabilities and errors”.


inner-rebellion, identity, spirituality