Harshta Batra

September 30th, 2022

400465164

I feel absolutely terrible and awful and miserable. It’s basically comical and everything

feels like a minefield, like the second I step anywhere I’m just going to blow up. How does

anyone find their niche, or just a way to live and be? I can’t understand how to do it. I’m

changing in a way I can’t fathom, my limbs and teeth are outgrowing me. I hate that I decided to

do this assignment last minute when I could’ve been at the mall, I hate that everything is so

lonely and hot all at once, I hate that some girl at a party gave me a throat infection and now I

can’t make out with anyone else. I hate that the one person I want isn’t looking for me anymore,

isn’t looking out for me anymore. I want to tell them I’m sorry for everything and I’m here if

they ever improbably need me, that I know how they feel and that's why my heart stammars

when I speak to them, because I understand them better than they know. I’m so so sad and so

angry and so so tired. Sometimes when I lie down I hope I’m carried away into nothing, to the

woods and groves of Alaska, feeling myself sink into a snowbank. Not forgotten, because I’ve

never been known, not alone, because I have the trees and sun and grass. I would be complete

without anyone knowing my name, I hate that I am visible. I know longer have the energy to

love and care about anyone, and I don’t care if that makes me selfish. One of my friends said

something to me a little while ago. They said, “You try too hard to act smart Harshta. Just be.” I

don’t know how it isn't clear that my brain doesn’t think in thoughts, that I’m not free, that I

barely understand what I’m saying. I feel unloved and awful all the time and I don’t know why,

how does anyone feel safe in the world we’re in? How does anyone have any fun? If I could lie
down and sleep away the rest of my life, I would a hundred percent. I would be long gone, I hate

how much I’m watched, like I’m about to jump off the goddamn deep end at any point, like I

ruin everything. I want to be doped and drugged up and unfeeling, I’m sorry if that goes too far

but I’m tired of it, I’m tired of this and I’m tired of failing, over and over. I want to leave, want

to leave behind love itself. I’m almost ashamed to admit that the reason I got over Him was

because I simply didn’t have the energy to wait for him any longer. Not because I gained self

respect, or healed, or finally became angry at him. But because I got tired. I can’t be angry at him

- he saved my life. What a stupid thing, to put your heart and soul into the hands of someone I’d

just met. Somehow he had to be the answer, I needed him to be the answer. I saved myself

through him, but that implies that he wasn’t important to me at all. That I could’ve done it

without him. And if I could have done it without him, why did I put myself through so much

pain? Why did I wait and rot for him the way I did, why did he know that I would wait for him

and not tell me to stop? THAT HE WAS LEAVING, GOING, LEAVING ME BEHIND. HE

RAN FROM WHAT I FORCED MYSELF TO WITHSTAND, WHAT I FORCED MYSELF

TO BEAR, WATCHED ME AS I STRUGGLED AND COLLAPSED UNDER THE WEIGHT

OF SOMETHING UNFATHOMABLE. And he will never feel guilt for it, he will never

understand how wrong he did me. He is a man. This is what they do. They don’t remember their

guilt, their crime, until it destroys them. And they drop to their knees, tilt their heads back and

cry out for mercy, throats bobbing, and yell, “I know what I’ve done! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” And

something will save them, before they ruin another life the Tuesday after. But nothing came to

save me. Nothing comes to save the crazy girls, the angry girls, the girls that rage and scream

until their throats are raw. Our hands are welted, our throats are welted. Pretty and angry. I think

it’s so interesting that the crazy girl trope only seems to be accepted or romanticized when the
crazy girl is conventionally pretty. If she doesn't have high cheekbones and ivory, porcelain skin

and perfect hair and graceful steps, her insanity isn’t accepted. I suppose we’re only worth

something if we’re fuckable, I suppose we’re too difficult to manage if we’re anything else. I

think of men who’ve hurt me and the way they said they wouldn’t. I think of who they wanted

me to be. My father - be delicate and strong, feminine but not too much, accomplished but not

plastic, stand but not up to me. Mike - be sweet and soft hearted and strong regardless, women

won’t make it without their toys and telephones and pink fur blankets. Mohit - make him feel

strong, make him feel like a man, act like he’s the best you've ever had, like there will never be

anyone else. Everyone else - be brave enough to fight for them, but not with them, be sexy

enough so I’m valuable, but not so much that they’re jealous. I molded myself to them, molding

over in the process, because that is what love is, that is how I love people, that is how I’ve forced

myself to love. Otherwise it won’t be enough, and if it isn’t enough they will hurt me. I protect

myself with goodness and it’s so shameful and awful and embarrassing to admit. That I use my

innocence and victimhood as a shield. I am a victim, of many men and many hurts, I will admit,

however I still use it to my advantage. Still find a way to make it work. I’ve learned, too often

and too much, that appearing strong and able and fiery is almost a challenge to the men I know.

“Go on, hurt me, give it your best shot.” And then they do, and I crumble completely. Men take

it too far. I wasn’t even asking for it. It’s not fair, and I’m angry all over again. I didn’t deserve

the things that happened to me, and that scares me in a way I don’t tolerate. That somewhere,

deep down, there's a small girl, scared and burning in anger. That she genuinely believes that the

world works in fairness, that people get what they deserve and nothing less. But the world

doesn’t work this way, I try to accept it over and over and it doesn’t work. I still think that

something good’s gonna happen and nothing does. So I turn to beauty, and I turn to art, and I
pray against all odds that they will. My heart is unsteady, unfaltering in its belief. I’m afraid of

the spiral I’ll travel down when it finally gives out, when I finally give in.

I went to my hometown today. I wandered through clothing aisles and spoke to the

salespeople, chatted with a woman at the bus stop. I bought a feta-and-spinach knot from the

Greek food stand in Court, and later went back for chicken bites and vegetables. I remember how

small I was when I first came here, how I could disappear and no one would notice. I felt free as

nobody knew my name, as I could be whoever I wanted or needed to. I tried on dresses I’d felt

shy handling, and I sat on the benches behind the park me and my high school friends would eat

lunch at. I watched as fourteen and fifteen and sixteen year olds took our place, the same

swingset we danced across, fearless in our youth, unruly in our dreaming. I missed Aayla, as I sat

there. I missed her because I understood that she understood me, she understood who I was and

would never see me as soft regardless. Me and her were fiery together, afloat in our pain and

beauty. I remember her well, with her long, dark hair, and big brown eyes. ‘I remember you well,

in the Chelsea hotel, you were talking so brave and so sweet.’ A lyric from Lenard Cohen’s

Chelsea Hotel No. 2. And she was sweet, deep down, and brave, somewhere, but never showed

it. I have a lot of resentment towards her for that, even if I can’t turn it into anger, or hate, red-

hot and salvational. I still love her, somewhere, and I dreamed about her a week after I moved in.

There were flowers on vases on a nightstand I carved myself, as I slept across freshly-bought

sheets. As I dreamed, me and her met in a courtyard, a garden, with stone trellises and a gently

worn bench. I asked her to forgive me, and she said she did, and I told her I loved her and we

both cried and laughed and held each other in our arms. Sore and worn. I dream of her, I doubt

she ever thinks of me for more than a moment. This is how I love people, heavily, relentlessly,

without giving into anything other than love. I want to love you. I am not lying. I cannot lie,
can’t hold my tongue, my stomach turns and my heart aches. Come near, come close, so I can

fall in love with you once more. I enjoyed loving you. I don’t think many people understand it,

the heat of obsession, the comfort I feel from you, your needs, fulfilling them, sustaining you.

That is what I was sure love was. Heat, and pain, and glowing, sacred accomplishment. A place

to rest my head, my soul, my body as it turns to dirt.

Soulmate. Tied to me, tied to you, entrenched, intoxicating, unbreakable. What have I

spoken into you, deep against my mind? Gentle curses, sweet nothings, it's all the same to me.

You need to be the answer. I need you to be the answer. I love you, is I love you the same as

wanting and pleading? I’d break for you, a hundred times, maybe more, beg, argue, fight, die. If

that is love, do I still want it? I turned myself into your puppet, your fabric. It’s a cliche, I know,

but you lied to me; “No strings attached.” Even when you forced me to pull myself apart, to rip

and tear and shatter completely. Did I love you, or did I just need you? Would you even tell me

the difference? “I think you ruined me.” “It sounds romantic,” He says, “When you say it like

that.” But I know she doesn’t mean it that way, I know he won’t understand.

You broke me, and I hate you, and I love you, and I want you, and I want to hurt you back,

worse than ever before. I was brilliant, before I met you, you took something away from me. I

tore myself apart for you, made every edit, every altercation, hoping my name would soften your

lips when you finally said it smiling.

“And then he leaves,” I giggle, keeling over. A scream sleeps in my throat; no one is here

to hold me when it wakes. I don’t know how or who to ask. “He just fucking leaves.”

I don’t love you. I don’t love you. I don’t love you. I try to convince myself of this, razors

against my bloody, swollen tongue, the scars between my thighs bumpy and brown. I swear I am

still lovable, wantable, fuckable, hope and pray for it. It’s all I’ve ever wanted. You never
wanted me that way, and I don’t know why it hurts so much if I never wanted you. I’m tired of

you lying to me. I say you don’t care, I know you don’t, the one thing I’m sure of. You lie, and

lie, and lie again, and there’s no way for me to prove it - my intuition is honest, even if you are

not, and you gaslight me (“Where are the facts?” You said once, laughing at me as my face

flushed. “What are you even talking about?”) but I don’t feel stupid. I’m right.

I’m so performative, now, I think. My pain, my soul, my heart, actresses - I think about

how you would view me, how she would view me, how they would view me if they saw me

now. For some reason I think they would want me better. “I love you,” Lana says, words soft

against my mouth and ears. “But you don’t understand me.” I skip the words, I’ve heard them

before. Cruel World screams against speakers, and I settle, calm. “Got your bible, got your gun.

And you like to party, and have fun. I like my candy, and your women...” No one understands

me now - I used to think you did, used to think you would. I ruined myself for you, you held me

to the brink of exhaustion, cupped my face in your hands. Promised, swore up and down that it

was enough, I was enough, I was perfect. I was everything you wanted. “And I’m so happy, now

that you’re gone.” I’m not happy, but I’m sane. I’m free. My ribs remain broken and skin

marked, stained by you and so many others - those who loved me, those who used me, liars and

cheats and my beloved, loving conmen. My fingers trace the heavy circles, deep under my eyes -

late nights thinking of you, the weighted mornings after. Smile lines - “You look perfect when

you smile.” I did it again. Day and day after, annoyingly, just for you, ruining my mouth and

face. My hips - capable of holding a baby, retaining shivers from where you traced them. TV

ugly, you called me. I am not beautiful. I’m not even pretty. But I’m more lovely than you could

ever know. “Shared my body and my mind with you.. That's all over now.”
 The brain juices simply are not flowing. Writing ten pages straight is absolutely

exhausting, I feel like I’ve turned liquidy and gross. This is so so yucky. My brain burns. I don’t

understand why we have to do this every three goddamn weeks. I’m falling behind in literally all

of my classes, I have to get shit done now so I can study for my psych midterm. Which is next

week, and I actually will do terribly because I have been doing so so badly on the quizzes

leading up to it. I’m also angry that we have to write three pages of this free write on our end-of-

course essay. Do I look like I have the energy, I am literally minutes away from offing myself.

Oh, no, that's going to end badly - whatever, who cares. My rage is a heavy thing. Love Ms

Virginia Woolf for the moth metaphor, that poem hit very deep with me. However, that is not

what I will be comparing on this day. I will be comparing George Orwell’s “Shooting an

Elephant” to “A Modest Proposal” by Jonathon Swift. Why? You guessed it, they have the most

similar themes so far, though I would love to have compared something to Death of a Moth.

AMP and SAE both explore colonialism in very separate ways. There is a change in style, tone,

audience, and purpose. However, they are both similar in the tension of action and guilt. Neither

of the narrators in these pieces are happy of at peace with colonialism. However, Orwell’s

tension causes him great agony and inner turmoil, as he eventually goes against what he truly

wants and shoots this elephant. Swift goes the opposite direction. His audience isn’t the general

public, unlike Orwell’s, his audience is high-class oppressors. Swift is direct, disgusted, angry,

laying blow after blow. He is angry at what is happening, but unlike Orwell, he is writing A

Modest Proposal with the intention of creating action. Orwell was critiquing British imperialism,

but not in a way that was driven and could cause a direct effect, the same way Swift’s work did.

However, SAE also takes in the view of the colonizer, while AMP considers the colonizers to be

ruthless, unfeeling, selfish, and greedy. These two perspectives are colliding with one another, as
Orwell argues that the colonizer also feels trapped against the expectations of others. “I often

wondered whether any of the others grasped that I had done it solely to avoid looking a fool.”

What bothers me about SAE is the amount of sympathy Orwell has for the colonizers. If the

elephant is to represent an imperialistic empire, that comes to an end when it causes destruction

and becomes tyrannical, and it dies at the hand of a colonizer in the story, the point of SAE is to

say that the empire will come undone at the hands of its own men. This is to say that the

colonizer will forever spend their time in power trying to keep power - the same concept of, once

you get to the top, you have to fight to stay at the top. Additionally, the only reason the colonizer

has to fight to stay in power is because of the empire’s tyranny. When an empire treats its

subjugates well, there is no need for a constant show of strength, as the constant show of strength

is used to stifle a revolution. If the people are happy, they will not feel the need to fight against

whatever rules them.

Imperialism and colonization help no one from Orwell’s perspective. From Swift’s

perspective, it doesn’t really matter if they feel trapped. Morally, what the narrator is doing in the

story is still wrong. He as an individual is weak against the evils of imperialism. He is doing

nothing to strike back at a system he views as evil. He has little sympathy for the people under

imperialist rule. However, I think this is the point of the story. If Orwell had made this narrator a

hero, someone who pointed out the evils of imperialism, it would have diminished why

imperialism is evil. Imperialism is evil because it squashes the ordinary, no matter which side

they are on. And because of that, he could not make him a hero, he could only make him a man.

Very few people are heroes - most of them give in to the most practical thing, the most practical

option.
 In terms of devices, not my philosophical, higher meaning ramblings, there is also a

sparse difference in what Orwell uses to get his point across and what Swift uses. Orwell

repeatedly uses repetition to enunciate that though the narrator does not want to kill this elephant,

he has no other choice. Similarly, Swift uses carnivorous language to enunciate how the Irish are

being taken for everything they are worth, between famine and tax. Swift uses cannibalism itself

as a metaphor, I think. Throughout the ‘proposal’ Swift speaks of using Irish children as a food

source, mentioning that imperialist forces have devoured their parents already. Swift isn’t talking

about actual cannibalism, but the fact that the Irish have already had everything taken from them,

have been stripped to nothing. Similarly, he also compares the Irish people to livestock.

Livestock are bred to be slaughtered. That is their purpose, to be used as food and clothing. Swift

compares Irish people to livestock to emphasize the inhumane treatment under imperial rule. I

think that though A Modest Proposal is more clever than Shooting an Elephant, shooting an

elephant looks at colonialism in a way that is more clever. SAE critiques the concept and system

of imperialism itself, while AMP only critiques the selfishness of the higher ups. I’m not sure

which one to view as morally more reasonable, as Swift seems to be urging the high class to

have actual consciences. And then Orwell is over here understanding that most ordinary people

will not do the right thing if it is not within their best interest. Swift seems to be leaning towards

taking action on a lower level than Orwell, as Orwell is discussing the immorality of imperialism

itself. However, at least both of them are agreeing that colonization and imperialism are very

very bad. I’m not sure what else links them together, other than that, however I don’t think we

were given other essays that could be construed as having similar things. Imperialism takes from

both the people who it rules over and the rulers, it is a constant power struggle, in which both

parties are simply trying to survive.