For a past few days, I have been suffering from a bad, a VERY bad insomnia. A couple days back, I even tried crying my eyes out just to strain them. Unfortunately, that didn’t work either. Last night I got so frustrated that I screamed so loud (it was 1:30 in the morning) that I scared myself which, clearly, did not help in any way what-so-ever in putting my body to sleep and my mind at ease. Sighing to myself in defeat, I decided to do what happens in most movies: stand under the ‘gorgeous’moonlight. I swear it looked beautiful, the moon. But to my added irritation, a part of it was hidden behind those infernal houses. (God I personally hate one or two maybe five of my neighbours!) Determined to take a full look at the beautifully flawed silver eye of the heaven, I decided to go to the terrace. Where I could feast my eyes upon the beauty of it all. Of the dark night. Maybe meet Dracula!
Making my way through the stairs, I pushed past the wet, winter-soaked night clouded with thick mist and whispering quiet chilly murmurs in my ears. The big, rusty door ,which was the only barrier between me and my supposed paradise, seemed to be looking down at me with cold eyes, as if warning me to turn back. But for some strange reason, I did not. I pushed it open to enter what I had hoped to be an ecstatic view. It turned out to be a completely different world instead. Fog engulfed me the minute I stepped on the cold, rough-stoned floor.
Eyes watering. Lungs filling with the chill smoky smell. Somewhere far down the road, dogs started barking at something. The fear of the unknown burning burning my stomach red. I did not move. I could not do anything at that moment. My body was paralyzed. Mentally cursing myself at such a stupid decision of climbing two floors up in the dark night all alone, I started to retrace my steps slowly toward to door. The fog was blinding. Was it sweat or just the liquefied mist, I don’t knoe. I never stayed to evaluate as I rushed down at a dangerous speed, scuttling in the black spread wide in front of me, almost falling twice on my way down. The howling darkness wrapped its wings all around me. I could feel it clutch my legs, rendering me unable to move. I don’t know how I got past that but I did. And during that flight down, I could think of only one person, one scene. Only two syllables on my lips, Wuthering Heights.
I am telling you, I’ve never been so afraid in my entire life. Just the thought of Heathcliff digging up Cathy’s grave at midnight sent the blood flowing in my veins into wild ripples.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
And a heaving chest.
I knew at that time that it was going to be another sleepless night. I could not shake the image of him – the dark-eyed, lovesick demon – away from my mind. And after a half an hour of non-stop cursing, I finally gave into re-reading the book. I felt possessed by the idea of Wuthering Heights and the spooky side of md did not want to let it go. Won’t take no for an answer.
And I am really glad that I did since reading that book again, and under those circumstances, stirred something inside me. Inspired something at which I’ve never tried my hand before.
On Heathcliff’s ungovernable passion for Cathy: A poem
Standing under the dark sky,
he waited motionless, oblivious of everything else,
holding back some suspense.
Bleeding hands traced the words etched on grey –
before he turned the earth upside down
to take a look at her face.
She is all bones now, as hard as stone,
but to him the radiance is still there, glowing pink in cheeks.
To him, her hands are still warm,
still breath in her lungs.
He traced with his dewy fingers
the hard jaw, so delicately,
as if it is the only real thing in the world.
His hands slid down her bosom,
to feel the gentle melody once again.
But finding it still,
he convinces himself, ‘She’s playing some game.’
‘Don’t leave me alone in this abyss,’ he had pleaded,
yet she was gone,
cursing him to burn in torment, day after day.
But he won’t accept this as his fate,
he whispers in her ear with a smile on his face,
‘Cathy, we will be together again.’
I know it’s not the typical type of review I usually do. But hey, do you really need me to tell you about the beauty of Wuthering Heights? About it’s hauntingly beauftiful ambience which leaves the reader so emotionally worked up that you just want to stop existing. And if you have not read it yet, then my dear friend, there is something seriously (and I mean that) wrong with you. So, I would like you to go and read it and then come back, like the obedient little sweeties that you are, tell me that you have read it. It is important. You nust not die before reading the book. I won’t let you.
(Btw, did you like my poetry? ☺Let me know in the comments below. Oh, and the incident described above is true, I swear. )
Note: I love this soul-wrenching yet strangely comforting work by Emily Brontè. It is one of my lifelines. So, I will be doing more posts on this in the future. Keep an eye out.