(Memoir)
Today I feel my past like an unbearable weight; I feel that it interferes with my present life. So that practically my manner is ruined, I have turned out nervous, gloomy, and irritable. Thoughts are seizing my mind, and I begin to pass over in remembrance of the different scenes of my short life. There I dwell on all the circumstances that were unpropitious to me, and as I wonder further and further into the misfortunes that befell me, I come to the realization that I have never not once been able to succeed in extricating myself from the pain of my past.
The thing is that this anguish of the past seems like a prolongation of an impetus that refuses to culminate. Of course, what I went through during that period of joblessness was a tremendous, if not heartbreaking, experience. One great upheaval that I certainly endured, and precisely because I lived it through, I thought I was finished with it. I thought I would be stronger to face another scene of similar magnitude, but I was wrong because, for the last three days, the sentiments with a symmetry of togetherness to that one of the past that had been engraved indelibly in the mysterious region of my being have over time come to reappear persistently in fragments, in my mind, manifesting themselves within me by a void. Thus, the terror of suspense in the omnious hush of my existence, which imbues an impending doom, is what stupefies me; already I begin to sense within me a kind of intolerable pain.
Its impulses injure. I dread the destruction it causes, and even having gone through it before, the inadequacy of my heart refuses to grasp it, and if it comes back, surely it will be a different kind of fatality all together. Why? Because if the world were a stage and I were merely an actor on it, then my part this year has been less tragic, and these days that are now coming to an end were truly the days of peace. They were days of convalescence with moments of freedom from the despair that threatened. Freedom from the loneliness of being isolated. It was freedom! Freedom unshackled from a disembodied spirit. Days that I no longer exhausted my miserable heart by bitter tears and frantic complaints; days I no longer reproached my fate for pain and wretchedness, but now I wait in confusion for the closing hours of a year that has been to me more sweet and less bitter.
Oh! how my soul is distraught, over the ending of this cycle. How awful to part with what had become home—a job that had its own fair share of perks but nonetheless was the only one that came by after so long of waiting. I am still grateful for it, just that my spirit struggles against its finality, birthing the question of how I will survive in the coming days. What would become of me? Hence, my mental gaze directs itself towards that which lies ahead, forcing me to stare into a future that is so vague and dark, making me believe that truly, I have nothing to live for anymore, and if you ask me, it is rather hard to be finished with life on New Year’s Eve. So, I seek consolation in the various faculties that men possess. Mine being books, and even so, it led nowhither because literature does not make up for the tragedy and struggles of life. For be all as it may, this desired peace can only be attained through one’s soul.
I know. I know you are wondering why this act was in vain, but when I picked and opened a random page of the Tribetan book of living and dying, my eyes were directed to a certain line that read: There is only one law in the universe that never changes—that all things change and that things are impermanent. The death of your child has helped you to see now that the realm we are in—Samsara—is an ocean of unbearable suffering. And immediately, something indescribable within me that has been holding me taut all these years slumps and folds itself. This thing shatters. It is as though the words awakened a consciousness of obstacles and difficulties that I could easily forget if I did not pick the book up. Hence, I force myself to take flight. Perhaps in search of a read that displays softness, tenderness, and not violence. My escape becomes Somerset Maugham’s The Razor Edge, where I stumble upon a line that reads, “Nothing in the world is permanent, and we’re foolish when we ask anything to last, but surely we’re still more foolish not to take delight in it while we have it.”
Suddenly, I begin to think that both books were written with me in mind because they begin to nudge through my thoughts yet I want to forget. I do not want to process the words, but it is futile solely because each time I read a book, I discuss it with myself, I judge it, I find its qualities or its faults, and I begin to think such deep thoughts that I get lost and with these two, unending questions emerge. Questions like, Why are good experiences so shortlived? Can man really enjoy a moment of unbroken peace in its absoluteness? Why must life switch within the spectrum of good extremes only to shove you back to experience the extreme of the most foul? These questions press upon me, and as I recall the darkness I endured before this light bearing the fact that, in a moment, I will ultimately be engulfed in another period of bleakness, life strikes me as pathetic.
And in this exact moment, it is only a person who has felt the agonies that come with a period of joblessness who is able to penetrate my feelings; only in this state will they be able to understand the madness that makes me push these books aside; the gnawing wants to batter my head on the wall. The wild beating of my heart, the trembling of my limbs, and the sinking of my knees fighting the unknown only to reenter yet another life that has already presented itself in conflict. And as I am defeated, I lie on my bed and feel the entire tranquility of this hour, where my own breath and involuntary sobs are the only sounds that strike the air. I am weary, and somehow I combat the heavy sleep that weighs down my eyelids. I seek repose, although I do not hope for forgetfulness. I know I am supposed to be pursued by dreams, but I still dread the one fear that has continued to enmesh me even in daylight. But be all that as it may, I manage to close my eyes, and an unknown spirit unexpectedly diverts my mind from the hideous memories that rack it.
**
It was the beginning of this year of sheaves, when I was almost giving up on life, but Nicu was there holding me with gentleness, and when I asked him why he keeps doing this, he said that I am his. That we—he and I—will do this life together as a team, and not once will he permit me to lose the core that is my beingness. Nonetheless, dear readers, sometimes I like to think that I forced him to morph so fast from a friend to a teacher or even embody both roles for my sake, and oh, how heavy it must be for him to carry my load. And as it stands, numerous times I would watch him stop his life just to come to war with me. But that is just to it; what’s emotional is that there is no single day he told me to go out there and do me. That me, Sifa, has become a burden or a lost case. Instead, every now and then he would dissect my agony, put things into perspective, and carve a way out of my impasse in a fashion that makes me feel like I did it myself when it was really him behind the wheel. Such that each time I am in conversation with him, nude in my messy authentic self, I do not dismember but get to sign out whole with so much dignity, and up to date, I have yet to see anyone like Nicu who would continuously cash their ticket and bet on me even before merit calls my name. Up to date, I continue to marvel at his presence in my life, wondering how I gained so much tenderness from just one person.
But I have been talking to Charlie all year long. He affirms that I have grown beautiful inside and out. I have become a boss babe, who goes after what she wants, and truly, this cannot be a lie. It is a truth I can attest to, because this year, destiny granted me more than I ever dreamed of demanding. And like all things given by destiny, all that is inevitable and designed in heaven, comes without hesitation, spontaneously with a beauty that terrifies me for the reason, that this is the year I made meaningful connections. This is the year, I developed a community of readers on all my social media platforms. This is the same year that my DM has flooded with positive feedback concerning my writing. Hell no, this is the year three strangers have entrusted me to proofread their raw manuscripts before publication, and right now I am wondering how they were able to ferret this greatness that is my own, one which has been long lying dormant, hidden for years that even presently I am still finding it hard to claim it as fact.
And not only that, at one point, when I got to call Bree, I asked her the thing she is grateful for in this year, only for her to blurt out that her highlight of the year was seeing me. What a majesty of loveliness, and as I reflect on it now, I am filled with emotions. I sob because, if not for me, I still matter to those around me. So I refuse to disturb this moment of calmness. No, I will not, with an aching heart, seek the spectacle of my past misery. I will only devote myself to the pleasure of this present that the universe is offering me. And here in the darkness of this room, I seek the joy of not knowing, not feeling, not seeing—the joy of lying still and quiet in the utter warmth of my blankets because we humans are forever seekers. Searching for light in the darkness. Searching for a life without pain, fear, or aloneness.
I sigh. Thereafter, the scene closes with me finally falling into undisturbed slumber, a clear caricature of the patterns of my days, and in truth, I am never always in an unbroken state of grace. I have days of illuminations and fevers. I have days when the music in my head stops, and often more than not, I wallow in a maelstrom of emotions, hoping that I will not succumb to these moods of terror. And while in these days of the soul, when I am not on the side of courage, I have learned to cover all these up with understanding, my mind’s agility, my writing, and my reading. All these with the belief that yes, I may be scarred, but this destiny can be directed, that one does not need to be a slave to the first wax imprint made on their past sensibilities. For whence the deforming thoughts are smashed, there is a possibility of wholeness; there is a possibility of joy.
A memoir written on new year’s Eve.
To read previous blog story click the link below 👇🏿
https://sifaremmy.wordpress.com/2023/11/19/scraps-of-grace-1/
Memoir of Me 
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