Dear Friend,
Where to start?
Happy New Year? Happy New Year.
As much as I have always hated being greeted happy new year after the first month of the new year, I feel I owe you this much - to wish you the very best of the coming year, amidst all the uncertainty, all the chaos, that your small steps to thrive reap a bountiful harvest this year. In the midst of my own struggles with barely existing, I have reinforced my belief that it is this concern of the wellbeing of others than myself that makes my life even a bit bearable. And so, I wish that you prosper far more than you dared to dream, and that you lean into each failure you encounter as a sign not only that you exist, but that you are capable of so much more than you even thought. Happy New Year, friend.
In my second year at university, I gave away my headset- the Nokia black and red wireless ones, popular at the time - to a friend for a week. I remember walking around afterwards, head down and often staring into space, almost like I was in mourning. My friend made a joke about how it most definitely couldn’t be my inability to listen to music that had left me feeling like I had lost a relative. She was right though - as with all the best jokes, the truth can always be funny in retrospect. Music has always been germane to how not only I express myself, but in capturing thoughts and feelings I am still scared to face. As You’re Somebody Else plays on my speakers in the background, I can’t help but feel like the artist is talking to me. Every interaction with people other than myself has me mourning a self that I am certain was me in a time I can only faintly remember. I find myself leaving each interaction more unsure of myself than I was before I had them - a basket of questions, each question slipping through the holes before I can even answer them. “Well, you talk like yourself/ No, I hear someone else though/ Now you're making me nervous”
I planned to write to you on the eve of my birthday, the thirteenth of last month, and then the day after that, and then at the end of January. I watched as each time the moment came to face you, I wilted and retreated into myself. Now that I think about it, I realize that I was allowing my fear to win. My fear of being able to accurately describe what the issue was, of why I was struggling to keep up the façade that society expects of me - to discard myself of this weight, step into the light and pull myself up by my bootstraps. I also realize now that it was also perchance shame, the shame to admit that each day is an extreme herculean effort that I can’t seem to overcome, a battle that I am constantly losing. I am writing now, not because I have overcome either my fear or the shame but because I have started asking myself what I gain by denying the fact that I am afraid of living, and ashamed of my failures to live. If indeed I hold the notion dear to me that life has no meaning, then why do I give my fear and shame a meaning surpassing my need to unburden myself by expressing how I feel and writing to you?
Emil Cioran often wrote with this idea in mind: whenever you express something that you’re feeling inside, it instantly makes it far more bearable to live it. I have often read in various forms that resistance to pain only amplifies one’s suffering. So perhaps, by resisting my urge to express myself, by seeking only to bottle it up and soldier on, I have increased the load which I have been carrying. After all, the man walking in the rain shielding his face with his hand only offers himself a perceived respite with the increased effort of holding his hand up as compared to the man who walks on waiting patiently for the rain to stop. I had somehow forgot that that is indeed why I write - to connect, with not only myself but also with you, to let you know that you are not alone. I can however acknowledge that when one is stuck under the rain, there’s an almost reflexive craving for any form of respite that alienates itself from logic.
I haven’t been myself lately. That is the truth. I no longer find it easy to sit and watch anime for long periods; I do not voraciously consume books and articles like I used to; I can’t seem to answer messages or calls as speedily as I once did, dreading each brush of my existence with another’s. I am more comforted by my solitude than I ever was; I have not left my house in a week and have no desire to do so. And while this has been scary for me to come to terms with, especially with friends and family expecting a version of me I am still mourning, I am learning to lean into it. If each cell within me undergoes changes, and is not the same as it was yesterday, how do I - the product of this cellular unity - expect to remain constant and impervious to time and circumstance? Life is indeed inherently meaningless - of this I have no doubt, and indeed numerous great minds before me share the same view - then it behooves me to, while holding certain principles as reference (kindness and honesty), create a meaning that offers me peace of mind even while society, read nigeria (small letter intended), devolves to chaos around me. It will be hard, but what part of living isn’t?
In all of this, I admit that it would be remiss of me to not apologize to my friends who have not only worried about me, but worn it on their sleeves and reached out to me in my silence. It would be remiss to not apologize for ignoring their messages, missing their calls, for making them feel like perchance they might have done something wrong to offend me or doubt their place in my lives. I am sorry, more than you could ever know. The shame of returning to you after my failures consumes me but I am thinking of you, rooting for you and always on your side. That, I am sure will not change. It has never changed. It would be foolish of me to discard the people who have brought forth meaning to me out of a life I find meaningless. I admit that I may have many flaws but I do not presume that foolishness is one of them. I am still here; you are still on my mind, in my heart. And if my silence has caused you to outgrow our friendship, or perhaps circumstances, then know that I am still rooting for you, cheering you on in the background, wishing you well. That will never change. No matter the version of me I am now.
Elections are next weekend, and it would be thoughtless of me not to mention them considering the current chaos that is nigeria at this time. nigeria terrifies of me, of this you are no doubt aware, but I find myself hopeful that with this election, we stand rather precariously on the precipice of better. I am aware that it is the hope that kills, yet I find myself echoing Lord Morpheus in his battle with Lucifer Morningstar “what is that kills hope?”. So, go out and vote. Vote wisely - and if we’re being honest, there’s only one candidate to vote for when that statement is used: Peter Obi. Protect your vote, stay safe and let’s hope together for a nigeria that makes us less afraid, a nigeria that we can be proud of.
In the end, I can only hope that you find peace in your days and surround yourself with people who bring meaning to the dreary meaningless of life and living. I haven’t been myself lately but I can assure you that this part of me has not changed. I am wishing you a lovely week. Stay safe. And most importantly, don’t forget to breathe.
Signing off to the same by mehro
“… i may change
but i’ll never love anyone the same”
Sine Cera
Osondu
❤
🤗❤️❤️