the-diary-of-a-ghost-girl

[the-diary-of-a-ghost-girl]

Regarding “Mirror” by Sylvia Plath:

In Plath’s case, the woman’s mirror is used as a personified object to give the effect that a person's lifetime is bound inside a collection of alternative reflections, illustrating the threshold between our conscious and unconscious minds. 

Although the mirror is able to recognize monotony; sensing the regularity of the wall across from it, and the darkness that washes over the pink speckles when the woman is gone. The mirror’s ability to only be able to view the woman's physical appearance is a paradox to the reflection that the woman sees that reveals her true inner self. When the mirror is peered into, the aged complexion reflected back is used as a telescope into the soul and psyche.

The woman is aware of her inner and outer demons, and is limboed between the distinction of her inner self acceptance and outer social appearance. I feel that this contrast causes the woman to become frustrated, as she wastes what is left of her youth on reminiscing the woman she no longer is.

The resentment she feels is reflected back faithfully, as she rewards the mirror with “tears and an agitation of hands.” This suggests that the mirror withholds more importance than what Plath leads on.

Despite the mirror's complacency, the woman's world is entirely dominated by its glassy eyes, projecting that the mirror is more paramount than what is suggested. When the mirror’s plateau conforms into a free-flowing body of water it becomes apparent that the woman feels more vulnerable and exposed.

She tries to run away from this frank lens by hiding herself behind the flickering flame of a candle or the gleaming moonlight that presents itself after sunset. These luminous liars hide the malicious truths that the mirror provides, convincing the woman that her beauty is persistent.

This feels much like how I allow myself to be reflected; the body of water engulfing me with shrewd ruminations that tick inside of my head like a two-faced clock. A watch for both my inner and outer demons to tally my remaining notable youth.

What is interesting about the relationship between the mirror and the woman is that they both seem to rely on each other for acceptance. The woman relies on the mirror to see her true manifestation, and the mirror has nothing without the woman; the mirror would only see darkness. This odd correspondance is important because the poem is not only about how the mirror sees the woman, but also about how the woman sees the mirror. This wholly suggests that the mirror is not just a liminal space, but instead is also a malleable expansion of where its own desires are reflected. 

The woman is conscious of her wanting for society to accept her for what she appears to be on the outside, although she still longs to accept her subconscious that is riddled with imperfections. Plath uses this dichotomy to help display the everyday terrestrial aspects that we personify in order to feel comfortable in our own skin. This solidifies the women's appreciation towards the mirror, regardless of the great amount of insecurity it has accumulated inside her.

The woman can no longer grasp onto the young girl she once was, although the mirror still encompasses the collection of alternative reflections that it has consumed throughout her lifetime. Despite her feelings of resentment towards her now wrinkled skin, she sees the mirror as a nostalgic window into her childhood.

The glass slate hanging upon the woman's wall holds the key to the treasure chest of her absolute lifetime, withholding the kaleidoscope of who she used to be. Her entire essence is seized behind a sheet of glass, the mirror being her whole truth, and the lies she tells herself being represented by the glimmers of soft light that alter her reflection.

- S.R.G. (2022)

[the-diary-of-a-ghost-girl]

Chimera

I wake each morning finding myself searching for a pair of rose colored glasses.

Supine with my arms outstretched in front of me, grasping at the atmosphere for any remains of my dying soul.

I’ve always felt as if I was floating in a pool of plasma; with the bearings of my being suspended within each individual atom of its matter.

There’s been this inconsolable wonder hidden somewhere inside the insatiable desire to see just how bad things can get.

Although now i’ve become dumbfounded to the difference between feeling everything so incredibly deeply, and feeling absolutely nothing at all.

It’s as if I long to be destroyed- to be delicately laid over a sheet of glass, then placed under a microscope and examined by curious eyes.

Before my specimen spontaneously combusts into a yellow glowing flame, and my infrastructure is indefinitely burned down to ash and soot.

I’ve discovered how easily one can tear their beating heart out from its cage, just to place it in the hands of another who is incapable of fathoming the value of what is held within their grasp.

And everything contained on the inside, every single thing you’ve ever given; will slip right through their fingertips like water.

As if your viscous blood has fermented to wine, pooling at the feet of those who once tended to your dehiscing wounds.

Now they’re just stuffed full of the salt my forsaken tears have left behind.

Here I am alone, bleeding out of every orifice, can’t you see my deprecating corpse?

I fear the day I reach my threshold and will no longer have anything left of myself to give.

I’ll be gutted from the inside out, vacant with only tendons and flesh to offer.

Before you go- please lay my skeleton across your nightstand. I promise my bones are strong enough to bear the weight of your lost soul.

- S.R.G. (2024)

[the-diary-of-a-ghost-girl]

Enceladus

Sat on Saturn, drowning in deep blue

Comets fly above us while I embrace you

The stars in your eyes illuminate my heart

Constellations burning so close, but too far apart

These rings around us are halos of my darkest demons

Lost in clouds of nebular dust, but your arms are what I want to dream in

If gravity brought me to you, I hope to never fall...

I’m in love with an alien, now my soul can’t withdrawal-

Sat on Saturn, drowning in deep blue

I hope that our extraterrestrial love is only true

The sun may be brightly burning from miles away

Though the only heat I need is the warmth radiating from you as we lay

Maybe these tears will flow through the rivers of space

You will be gone faster than the speed of light, leaving no trace

This universe was made just to be seen by your eyes

Away in your spaceship, I’m left on Saturn with no goodbye-

- S.R.G. (2018)

[the-diary-of-a-ghost-girl]

Eraser

I am white paint, the color in between

You paint me over purple, to cover with sage green

I am brushed on in layers, purple nowhere to be found

Despite being achromatic, old colors I will drown

If you ask too much of me, I will chip and crack

You constantly cover me up, just to repaint me back-

Little do you know, I am a canvas for art

But you’ve always preferred finished pieces, not this unfettered heart

You say that my body is a temple, dripping in gold

Who knew that a color so warm could feel so cold?

If you don’t like a shade, you throw it away

Although you always keep me, even after my color has faded to gray

I know that my color is not bright enough to heal

Yet you’ll still use me, only to cover your new shade of teal

I can’t help but cry tears of white paint when you’re gone

I should’ve known that I was just an eraser all along-

- S.R.G. (2018)

[the-diary-of-a-ghost-girl]

Halcyon

Sometimes I imagine my body sprawled out in a lush field of tulips; maybe somewhere in Norway or Germany, perhaps Sweden. 

With my stretched limbs tangled between cellulose stems and lucky clovers, and the light beating down against my porcelain skin. 

When the sun hits its highest point past the equator, its luminous rays will position themselves parallel to my pupils. 

Like an existential constellation aligning in unison, the sky filled with cerulean comets soaring past fiery nebulas.

My skeleton will shine and glow through flesh, exposing my calcified foundation to infatuated eyes. 

If you dissected my exterior down to bone, you would find veins stuffed full of fondness and capillaries spilling with your memory.

When pooling crimson blood turns these tulips to roses, my heart will frantically ache for a sheath of thorn cladded armor.

To shelter my soul from unrequited obsession and desire, fortifying my precarious fantasies.

I’ll dream of you for the remainder of this lifetime, and for the entirety of the next; and the next and the next…

- S.R.G. (2023)

[the-diary-of-a-ghost-girl]

On Adolescence...

  Since the age of 5, I have had an imaginary friend vehemently luring in the depths of my shadow. She first bestowed her presence upon me as I sat on the swing-set alone during recess, my fellow classmates preoccupied with hopscotch and four square. That very day I rewarded her with the name Flora; something both amiable and abiding.

Though as we spent the upcoming years together, her designated deposition slowly began to transform. The Flora I once called my playmate yielded into the ghost that solaced my precariousness, only to further mend into the subconscious that confronted my existential devices. We no longer braid hair, conjure dragons, sail seas, or gossip.

As I grew older, it took time for me to realize who Flora precisely was; she was me. The girl that consoled me while I swung alone on the playground that day is the same figment of imagination that has magnified the introspection of my feelings and idealizations. She is now the solitude that resides deep within me, the gauze stuffed into my forsaken wounds.

Someone else’s pliable entity may not manifest into the same being as my imaginary friend Flora, though we all have our own fictitious companions. As we grow and mature, the imitative subconscious that we seek during isolation is necessary in order to distinguish who we are, explore the idiosyncrasies of our minds, and be more open to the ambiguities of life. 

- S.R.G. (2022)

[the-diary-of-a-ghost-girl]

Rinse, Repeat...

The way life changes is incredibly uncomfortable.

To the point where our insides contort in terror, subsequently shaving off fragments of our souls in return.

We disguise these uncertainties through mundane conversation, just to pretend that everything is the same as it always has been.

But with time the air will no longer savor our memories, the tides will no longer carry our grievances, and we will be forced to encounter the very depths of our consciousness.

Who am I? What will I become?

Oh, how beautiful it is to experience life so deeply.

To pluck feathers from our fragile wings, only to one day molt into kinder, more introspective version of who we used to be.

The truth is that anomalies don’t actually exist.

We will still wake each morning coddled in bed, with our hearts still beating tediously in our chests.

And the blood that fills our hollow veins, will still pump through the parts of ourselves that we despise the most.

So if living transparently is our only alternative, so be it.

Love was never meant to be mistaken as loss, sadness was never meant to be depicted as hopelessness, and letting go was never meant to be portrayed as giving up.

To change is to feel, and to feel is to live.

To understand what the warmth of the sun feels like shining through flesh, beating down to the sheath of our bones. 

To embrace the act of tearing ourselves open for others, no matter how much of ourselves we may lose in the process.

Because despite all of the layers I have tenderly shed time and time again, I am still grateful for all of it.

- S.R.G. (2024)

[the-diary-of-a-ghost-girl]

A Proxy on Introspection.

I wish I could hide myself inside a tiny box, one so small that it would have to be constructed solely to fit my frame.

Where the walls embrace me entirely, and the deafening silence is almost tangible.

The exterior would be painted titanium white, so bare, but befitting.

Primed to be decorated with decadent prints then wrapped in red ribbon or wool twine, like a crafted gift sitting obediently under a glowing fir tree.

With the contents of my burrowed body remaining inside, obscure and undiscovered.

When the lingering oxygen escapes, darkness will begin to eradicate my flesh and seep deep into my bones.

The box will start to deflate and swallow me wholly, sculpting what’s left of my corroded carcass.

Then my delicate ribs will subsequently fracture and break open, finally setting my forsaken soul free.

Like an imprisoned finch spreading its wings after being released from its feeble cage.

Perhaps if I condensed myself small enough, I could metamorphose into a kaleidoscope, and scrutinize my being through a variety of severed lenses.

Ever since I was young I've wished that I could tear myself open, just so I could fix who I was entirely, from the inside out.

By rearranging the contents of my vessel, and bleed out all of the angst that once deemed me paralyzed.

Though gashes do not repair limbs that are already tattered and deranged, and hollow volatile bodies are no longer able to be held.

So maybe I am designated to be an urn used to dispose of harrowing identities, and maybe that is why I can never distinguish which one belongs to me. 

My heart's chambers fill to the brim with trinkets and ghosts, the empathies I cannot rid myself of.

Only for my box to be excavated again, and again, and again.

Until all that is left of my cell is a mirror, reflecting back a blank canvas, at the mercy of being embellished by new hands once more.

 - S.R.G. (2023)

[the-diary-of-a-ghost-girl]

The Diary of a Ghost Girl.

As the working week blended into the calendar, I found myself becoming more and more enthralled with the thought of finally being alone. To be left in solitary confinement with my obscure fantasies, a dark shadow casted onto the sunlit pavement. Like a diary at my fingertips, ready to be printed on my bed sheets and smeared against my mirror. Those periods of being by myself pulled me into moments of bliss that have convinced me that loneliness is a drug. An orange bottle full of tiny blue pills labeled: self indulgence.

Once the weekend came, my own ghost of isolation followed behind me and whispered sweet solitudes in my ear. It haunted my subconscious with daydreams that tamed my soul into consolation. Whenever I was lonesome I was able to conform into whatever I wanted, feel whatever I saw pleasurable, and reside wherever my mind decided to plant its seed. 

On Saturday, I went swimming. It was not until I was neck deep in the ocean that I realized I had never learned how to. I kicked my legs and flailed my arms, but anchors were tied to my feet and handfuls of seaweed filled my palms. It was not long before my limbs deemed themselves exhausted, and the waves engulfed me entirely. My consciousness was stuck between the limbo of eagerness and relief, flickering like the indecisive flame of a candlestick pooling with wax. Alone I traveled the sea; facedown I stared at the dark abyss that was beneath me.

My hair flew around in gusts of wind like a tattered sail as my corpse floated across the water. It was as if I were a corked bottle made of glass, stuffed to the brink with angst and secrets. The pages inside were left dry and untouched, only for the ocean's eyes to consume. I was headed in the direction of a serene storm. My body was a hostage to the rain clouds pumped full with gasoline, ready to spill out of the tank and light my mind on fire. 

I could not help but bask in that moment of tranquility, letting the feeling of loneliness sink into my skin and embrace me from the inside out. I fell in love. The sun drank my body in, swallowing me whole and gulping me down like it had never touched a drop of water. Soft whistles of wind and lullabies of waves sang me to sleep. Compelling tides siphoned me further away from reality as blackness tugged at my heartstrings like a naïve puppet. I felt like Emily Dickinson ready to exclaim, “I’m Nobody! Who are you?” into the fishy air, my voice fading away like my own identity was.

My eyes blinked back tears of salt and my lungs inhaled hot toxic air. I exhaled slowly like I had just breathed in the last draw of a cigarette, the ashy filter burning my fingertips as time evaporated with the smoke that swirled around me. It felt almost as if that very moment was where I was always destined to dissipate. I was finally set free. 

On Sunday morning I woke up with ocean water caked in my hair and fishing twine wrapped around my wrists. I unraveled myself from the restraints and walked to my mirror streaked with hidden desires and affliction. The girl looking back at me now had paint splattered on her overalls and graphite smudged across her cheeks. It felt like Sylvia Plath’s mirror was before me, the frosted glass whispering my insecurities back to me.

My reflection transformed into a blank canvas, the burnt cigarette bud had now converted into a wooden handled paint brush. Shades of red, yellow, and blue seethed out of my pores, dripping down my body like a temple coated in a golden hue. The colors mixed together to create purples, oranges, and greens as a labyrinth of rainbows bled down my arms.

The fate of a new creation was placed into my hands, a sacred role that made my stomach churn with excitement. I grasped onto my brush and ran it down my forearm, collecting a bundle of achromatic violet. I closed my eyes and inhaled the scent of paint thinner, while the silence that surrounded me buzzed in my ears like pollinating bees. Once my eyes were level with the white slate that was in front of me, I picked up my hand and began plastering my vulnerability all over the four walls. 

With each stroke of my brush I felt more and more at ease. A sense of contentment resided inside me, filling up my cup of isolation with spectrums of pigment. There was no question that what I created was thought to be right or wrong; whatever my brain constructed was pure and permissible. Nobody else was around to convince me otherwise, and I became an ill minded patient at the mercy of my own recovery.

I was sick off of paint fumes but fueled by my yearning to design a paradoxical reality that replaced my brains gray matter with color. I took a step back to admire the blotches of my soul that decorated my self stretched canvas. As nightfall came and the moon illuminated through my window, my walls were once again washed clean. 

When Monday came around again, I was back behind the wheel driving to my unavoidable occupation crowded with gossiping people. The thought of being alone became a distant dream once again, and I was left begging for Saturday to embrace me one more time. I spent the commute reliving what the oceans kelp felt like threaded between my fingers, and what the shade of teal looked like stained all over my walls. Until I was reunited with my fantasies, blueprints of fervorous solitude brought my mind solace. Although at the time being, my creations were bound inside the diary of a ghost girl.

- S.R.G. (2022)