After quite a few false starts, finally, the familiar sense of words taking root. You’ve left behind some very blue days. Of course there have been periods of uncertainty before, and you’ve been anxious and tired and scared, but this has been different. It’s been different because somehow, somewhere, you abandoned yourself without realising it. You’re reminded of the time when, as a child, you went out with some cousins to a mall, and got lost. They looked everywhere for at least an hour, and eventually found you hunched over a pile of books in a bookstore, oblivious to everything that had just transpired. To have found you there seemed so obvious to them afterwards—and it’s been a running joke since because, well—where else would you have been. Now too, you suspect, that’s where you might find yourself.
One evening you finished reading a poem and muttered “So what?” and it was so sad. The pauses in poems felt pointy, line breaks seemed haughty. Poems felt so smug all of a sudden. (And to think that you were teaching poetry at the time.) And then one morning you thought you would never stop crying, but your brother held you and it was okay for a while. Such discontentedness had collected over the months, so when it could finally spill out, it did. It’s left you wondering—where did all the judgment and shame come from? People once envied your nonchalance. Today is a good day to write about this—you woke up to a message from someone you might never have spoken to as a child, because of all the things that you just couldn’t see back then—it’s so much easier to forgive one’s past selves once one realises this. At times when you couldn’t even see it, friends have gently pulled you away from self-condemnation. One suggested gingerly that maybe you were criticising yourself too harshly in a voice note you’d sent him. You’re being careful with that now. Another time you remarked that we were all dumb at 17 and a friend said no, we weren’t—we were optimistic and we didn’t know much at the time—and she said that “Maybe I don’t want to be mean to our younger selves,” which was so unexpected and tender.
For weeks you collect these things that need to be written about and towards the end they are like little parrots perched on your shoulders and wrists. You wrote the following some time ago, when you were in a different mood, but even though the tone is different, it holds true:
In a recent newsletter, Josh Radnor writes about the difficulty of bearing the “weird and singular honor” of having played Ted Mosby on HIMYM. He writes about the beauty and depth that comes with it, considering how widely loved the show has been in the world. (Of course, you consumed it at a time of no responsibilities, when any and every show was a welcome retreat from the languor of adolescence.) The difficulty he faced was in trying to emerge out of the shadow of the show once it was over, so that he could discover other beautiful parts of himself. He compares it to going to high school, enjoying it, but then moving on, only to find that “an army of very passionate people refuse to update their conception of you. High school you is the only "you" that interests them, to the point where they deny and denigrate present day you.” In your own life, there’s hardly anyone who does this to you—except for yourself, on select occasions. Radnor writes that running from Ted has caused him pain. It’s hard not to relate. However, a merry incident leads him to reassess the situation, and he decides that it is “time to call a truce, to turn around and face Ted Mosby. And instead of screaming at him or reciting a list of grievances, I could pull him in for a hug.”
What you loved the most about college was that nobody cared about where you came from, what school you went to, what your parents did for a living, and so on. It was all you. Just you. And it was freedom. But since narratives are important to you, and each one must have neat and polished edges, it only makes sense that you’ve had to grapple with some things this past year, having returned home. You’ve made so many mistakes. All the ways in which you weren’t confident enough, loud enough, firm enough, strong enough to fight for what you wanted. How you, too, became inured towards the end so that the end was as relieving as it was terrifying. But there’s hope now. The fog seems to be clearing. You’re trying to return to humour and play and lightness and openness and craft and creativity. One of the most important things a warm, loving mentor has taught you is that what you already have is enough. There is simply no need to gather more and more and more. It reminds you of this clip that you adore of Derrida showing someone his library. Your favourite part of the exchange:
Derrida: “I haven’t read all the books that are here.”
Visitor: “But you’ve read most of them?”
Derrida: “No, no. Three or four. But I read those four really, really well.”
Finally, this beautiful painting by Lily Thula:
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Wow, some parts of it hit directly to heart, so well written ❤️
My heart is so warm after reading this.