A Eulogy Of Me
By: Theesma Janproject
Tags: Writers On Writing, Moving On, Writing Life, Writers Block, Mourning

It is hard to write about oneself when there is so much dislike going on about in the head. Let’s keep this bit of dismay here, and move on for a moment.

Alas, I have been toying with the idea of this and that and so many other ridiculous and not-so-ridiculous things to write, which, apparently, is bound to become my inglorious passion. So I have realised that the reason I cannot write is more than the horror story of most writers, the infamous writer’s block. No. Unfortunately no. See, I do not really entertain the writer’s block when I must really write. So I thought maybe I needed someone to give me a prompt, a homework, a rather grading experience so that even though I procrastinate, I shall not pass — the deadline.

But, then, I grew up. And graduated. And thus became as independent as an infant bird who cannot fly but who can squeak, admirably.

See, the thing about birds is that they eventually learn to fly. For us humans unfortunately, there is no guarantee that we will become less squeaky and more laborious for our own good.

So I put a lot of thought in the act of writing, like many. Is it a craft, is it an art? Am I good at it? Do I absolutely suck? How much sucking can I afford in my life? Am I imitating a movie character in my likings again? Should the act of writing itself look pretty, artisan and fulfilling? Or should I make way to the hustle culture and produce as much and let that decide the aesthetics of my imaginary writing life. Though, in either scenario, can I really?

As cliche as this metaphor is allowed to be: How can I fly? Definitely not by thinking of doing it. ‘How is your writing?’ people ask. People who I have recently ‘came out’ as a dilettante. ‘Oh I am writing, definitely working on it’, I answer. And sometimes I say that I feel blocked. Which, deep down, is not the full story.

It was not any mentor, nor was it the school that gave me the tingles, the itch, the not-so-glamorous-bodily-reactions to write. I usually wrote when I absolutely could not hold it in any more. When it was as if a thousand waves and sentences and exclamations were washing over my brain and creating a loud scream of guilt each time I resisted. No, not inspiration. The thrill of being verbally and fictionally exposed even to myself in my own mind versus the social convention and, well, the limits of my vocabulary.

I appreciate the bursts of writing and I also would like them to be more accessible to me more often. That to me, would be flying.

As boring as it sounds, a tiny bit of soul-searching about this thrill of writing brought about a not-so-boring revelation.

When I keep thinking of myself as the producer, the crafter of the story, the plots, the sounds — I try to make so many decisions about my present-self that it becomes overwhelming. And, the way the critique sounds in my dark mind, the bloodhound it is to find and wring out every possibly creative inch of me…whew.

Let me backtrack a little bit for context.

I have recently changed countries as well as my marital status. Like any change that awaits anyone, it was full of new experiences boosting up my sweet neurons. More than that, though it was hard to confess to myself and to my loved ones, it was full of mourning. The mourning of who I was- which is really a character in making in my mind depending on which memory, which scene that I am pulling from the messy folder inside — and the dust blinded me to any good thing happening to me in present tense.

Hence the eulogy. See how far it took me get to the point? Huh? The bloodhound is already sniffing failure at the time we speak.

I have realised that unless I mourn my past self, my past stories, the worlds that collided and made me who I am back then, the words will keep escaping me.

I would so desperately love to become a writer-self. Wonderful. How am I supposed to do that if I so scared to meet this new person, her thoughts, her experiences, the things she should write and maybe not post -if you know what I mean. I keep holding onto old memories, of how great they were, how loved I felt, even distorting some of them to constantly abandon what I have in front of me.

So here is my eulogy to the me I mourn, so that I can say my symbolic goodbye, pay my respects and finally write:

Dear old-me,

I liked how you always wanted to be liked by many and still be truthful to your values. The former was the Mr.Bennet to your Mrs. Bennet and her poor nerves. I appreciate it.

Although I am in deep mud to correct your mistakes I am also aware that you have shaken off so many on the way, that I should probably shut up about it. Thank you for transferring me a somewhat organised baggage to carry with me.

I have cried with you and laughed with you and met amazing people with so much insight. I also experienced with you the really bad stuff. Somehow, the bad stuff escapes me when I blame myself for parting ways from your life. The life you always wanted to extend. The life you were always trying to imagine bigger than it was.

Now that you are gone, you are so much better in my memories than you were back then. Understandable, knowing that I have transferred the things I have yet to forget about you to myself and thus glorified you in a way you would probably despise and make fun of.

In a mission to serve your memory, and of mine, when it is tomorrow, I decided to declare you ‘no more’, something I have been delaying for so long that made me sick in my soul. I suggest we should have our own lives, connected but individual. Your life was not as amazing as I nostalgically think about, and my life is not as miserable as it feels. I know now that only faith and writing can heal my memories. Of you. And of me, the present me. So many important details escape me as I address you, which makes me think I am, yet again, taking so long to say goodbye. The truth is, you don’t know me, but I know you. And I know I have other things to mourn and no longer you.

Goodbye old friend and maybe I will see you on the other side and hopefully, there we will not be the judge of each other.

Love,

Esma