Off late she spends a lot of the day by herself. Almost in entirety. With no one else around. Or inside of her mind. Either staring at the roof not sleeping, or turning sides. Driving, her way through an indifferent traffic. Honking. Honking on. Clinching her eyes, between attacks of irritation. Sighing, gasping. Holding her head in her hands, feeling her forehead with palms. Crying, sometimes, with mild moist eyes, among bunches of people. With whom there couldn't be nothing. Eating lunch by herself. Chapatis with damp edges, sitting alone, in some sunny place. Watching TV. Laughing at the jokes she got. And regretting that there was no one who would help her get the ones she never got. Quietly praying, not for an end of any sort. But just for the sake of being. Merely being. By herself.
Have you ever felt completely outside of the world you happen to live in? And if not being a part of it were an option, you wouldn't be. She probably has. Felt that way right from the beginning of her time. But lately, the recurrence of that feeling has increased so much that it had begun to hover around her all the time. And she spends a lot of the day with this sole feeling.
Sylvia Plath. By Herself