Sylvia's confessions to me after midnight

Today: First of July, 2021

Time: 6:30 am.

Location: In front of my mirror, looking to myself with a pale face and quick rapid breaths to make sure of the truth of what I saw yesterday!

What happened yesterday was very strange , I had sat all night reading Sylvia Plath's letters, and fell asleep in the midst of those fleeting correspondence, which robbed me from myself and my world to fall asleep a little, and the last thing I saw was Plath's picture on the cover of the book of the letters that I let the air caress his covers to see what is between them with curiosity and shame, I slept with my body and my whole mind revolving around Plath's ark which studded with its scattered letters, I see the dream wearing the robe of truth, and adorned with reality, to weave for us the story, a story created from your words, your words Sylvia...

The sea waves make a sound for the life, a sweet sound, in which nature speaks in its own pure language, to be translated by us with our words, our music and our dances that are moved by the breezes of joy as the wind breezes move the clouds of the sky to reveal the beginning of the full moon.

The Moon of that night...

London, February 11, 1963

I hear the sounds of bells ringing in a strange way, a rhythm that harmonizes with the sound of my cautious steps with many shades on a snowy street, leading me to that house, a house I know well, I climb the stairs smoothly who knows where I'm going as I resist the freezing cold, my limbs numb, and my extreme fear and anticipation of what is to come I remained in my place when I heard from the opposite apartment a faint female voice, closer to childish, muttering some words in what resembles the sobbing that resonates in a unified melody as if it were chants. I go around to find something, the first room was completely empty except for a few stacks of books and a lot of papers, pictures and stamps scattered on the floor of the room, the second room in which two children sleep like two beautiful birds, in front of their beds are two cups of milk and two sandwiches of butter lying suspiciously on the table, I quickly rushed to the last door, which was closed with duct tape, and a strange smell emanated from the inside. Spreading all over the place, and then I saw her... It was her... Yes, she was, just as I imagined her, with her brown hair and bright bronze colour, and she was walking tall to put herself in that furnace which is the source of this gas, she cried with all my voice:

Silvia No, please don't do that.

  She looked at me with her bright brown eyes, which tell of a pulsating mind and an aging soul, then said to me with confidence.

And a powerful voice reverberated in my ears until now:

You all think that life and death are opposite concepts, mutually exclusive, one disappears when the other comes, but I see them harmoniously homogeneous in a terrible way, you must die many things in you to live another, death awakens every life, and life must come from the womb of deep death, beautiful interdependence, and whirlpool Whoever killed everything that was alive, to revive what was buried long ago.

_But you are so hard on yourself, why don't you see it correctly, why don't we accept ourselves as it is, and look high and abstract over everything, that we judge the entity, not the event, that we walk the truth and not the illusion, why don't we wait for the end of the story instead of begging for a false incomplete ending It doesn't suit us, please, Sylvia.

She replied in her melodious voice: What is the use of living a life filled with the smell of fear, to utter a breath based on sadness, despair and pain? To dream of living after you were living a beautiful dream.

This is not true Sylvia, your soul is a piece of life, and your eye is a hunter of beauty, but your love is pure and your heart is attached to a killer. Different human feelings at this close time, made me hear the sound of a dream that was only extinguished by your absence... I said my last words while I could hardly breathe, after I felt the smell of gas filling my lungs, which made me wake up gasping as I tried to draw my breath, which seemed to me as if it was stuck in Hell, and with all that, and at that exact moment I wanted nothing in my life as much as I wanted to write, writing became for me now a meaningless story of life or death, I rushed to my papers and grabbed a pen from which I spilled my love and my lessons scattered with it, I was taken by what happened So I started wondering to myself: Is it possible that what I saw was real, that I actually managed in one way or another to cross it, is it possible to consider dreams as a way to travel through time and continents, through which we can leave our worlds and enter other immemorial worlds that only us have seen Or is it reading that was the way? Confirmed to travel and move through time and space and sail between letters and words that re-scatter and arrange themselves to tell you something that you would not have known alone, what if words made dreams!

  To the pure honest truth no matter how harsh it seems

To the pain that contributed to the formation of creativity

To the immortal letters.

To Sylvia

dearest Sylvia...