“The palace of crystal may be an idle dream, it may be that it is inconsistent with the laws of nature and that I have invented it only through my own stupidity, through the old fashioned habit of my generation. But what does it matter to me that it is inconsistent? That makes no difference since it exists in my desires, or rather exists as long as my desires exist.”
- Fyodor Dostoyevsky
And so I have reached my pinnacle, only to discover that it was always destined to be my demise. I have spent my two months of purgatory in New York and am now back in the glorious, languid heat of Lahore. I have also realised the futility of any attempt at trying to be myself; of actively coveting this sad repository of imagination. Many would say ‘I have been found out’ and mayhaps I have. Beentherella has been discovered, brutally raped, publicly ridiculed and put to shame by the vilest of all foes. I am told that my thoughts are offensive and hurtful to those around me and that I must apologise for them to no end. I have done that too…and yet, I cannot help but think them. The thought still persists, it still plagues. I can - in no sincere measure - summon up genuine guilt for this one exercise that has offered me solace over the past five years: writing for an audience. Much like Plath's journal, my blog- this trite, cream corner in cyberspace has been my ‘Sargasso’: my litany of dreams, directives, imperatives and ideal-isms.
Still, my experiences in the past month have taught me the weight and value of a poker face; of the silent spirit and of the repressed thought. Perhaps it was an inexcusable vanity on my part to assume that my feelings and my truths could remain my own. That my idle stream of perpetual procrastination could continue un-interrupted and that my casual corner would be frequented only by complete strangers. It has been the most asinine attempt at self-regression, this perpetual monologue of barely-contained melodrama that I had longed to continue clear of consequences. It was all bound to collapse and so it has.
Beentherella has left the building. And I shall turn once again to scribbling in waiting blank pages and to my type writer that has never betrayed me with delicious illusions of an admiring audience. This, whatever this compulsion is or has been: to be known, read, understood and perhaps even identified with is a whimsical, pathetic exercise at its very core.
It is pure, primitive need.
- Fyodor Dostoyevsky
And so I have reached my pinnacle, only to discover that it was always destined to be my demise. I have spent my two months of purgatory in New York and am now back in the glorious, languid heat of Lahore. I have also realised the futility of any attempt at trying to be myself; of actively coveting this sad repository of imagination. Many would say ‘I have been found out’ and mayhaps I have. Beentherella has been discovered, brutally raped, publicly ridiculed and put to shame by the vilest of all foes. I am told that my thoughts are offensive and hurtful to those around me and that I must apologise for them to no end. I have done that too…and yet, I cannot help but think them. The thought still persists, it still plagues. I can - in no sincere measure - summon up genuine guilt for this one exercise that has offered me solace over the past five years: writing for an audience. Much like Plath's journal, my blog- this trite, cream corner in cyberspace has been my ‘Sargasso’: my litany of dreams, directives, imperatives and ideal-isms.
Still, my experiences in the past month have taught me the weight and value of a poker face; of the silent spirit and of the repressed thought. Perhaps it was an inexcusable vanity on my part to assume that my feelings and my truths could remain my own. That my idle stream of perpetual procrastination could continue un-interrupted and that my casual corner would be frequented only by complete strangers. It has been the most asinine attempt at self-regression, this perpetual monologue of barely-contained melodrama that I had longed to continue clear of consequences. It was all bound to collapse and so it has.
Beentherella has left the building. And I shall turn once again to scribbling in waiting blank pages and to my type writer that has never betrayed me with delicious illusions of an admiring audience. This, whatever this compulsion is or has been: to be known, read, understood and perhaps even identified with is a whimsical, pathetic exercise at its very core.
It is pure, primitive need.
I am told (now that I have navigated my own personal minefield of damage control) that no one really has the ‘right’ to tell a truth that is lucid enough to illicit a reaction from another being, any reaction. I feel far too much like a mutilated, dilapidated Howard Roark, for I too ‘have no sense of people’. And I have not yet had the luxury of stumbling upon any treasure trove of ‘harmless, simple, benign’ personal truths that I can convey without fear. I must admit in turn, that I cannot even crave such hollows. In this particular instance I cannot help but agree with Rand, and I refuse to accept 'anything except what seems to be the easiest for people: the halfway, the almost, the just-about, the in-between.' Because Beentherella, despite all her pretty-isms was bold beyond measure in this one capacity: she never lied. I have finally felt the full brunt of ‘Them’ and ‘Their’ ability to cripple even the smallest of self reflections with a finality that both she and I are unable to disregard. So I shall bow out with the last shreds of my dignity precariously intact to once again traverse the pinnacle that is Loneliness.
My lesson remains to return to my former silence. It shouldn’t be too difficult to revisit a state of perpetual placidity, for I was quite adept at it not too long ago. A lesson, I now feel quite foolish for having ignored for so long, in some naïve attempt to tell my truth and finally discover myself. I have wallowed shamelessly in the delusion that harsh lessons gleaned from the past can be discarded in better times for humorous ones. It is always, always, always safer to remain locked. No one has ever paid a price for keeping silent...at least not in public.
So I shall leave you now - friends, foes, strangers, acquaintances and fellow Hobo's to move on to the bitter business of ‘Being’.
Beentherella was the figment.
Maria Amir is the fact.
