I am here with another body. Another self that I have put to death. Another version of me to bury and forget.
This cemetery holds mixed feelings for me. It’s hard to look at a grave of your own self. Well, former self.
Sometimes, you’re happy that that version of you is dead. She probably wasn’t a kind self. Or maybe she was too weak, too naive. But now she’s gone. And it’s a good thing and you’re glad. The new you is a better person, mostly.
Sometimes, you’re sad. You stare at that grave and weep. Weep for your child self that was forcefully torn away from you. Or for the happier, trusting self that was crushed by others.
Other times, you’re numb. You look at the grave and you don’t even know who that person was. It was your self, yes. But you don’t know her. You can’t recognise her. How can you mourn or rejoice over a person you don’t know?
The truth is that most of these selves are dead. Not all of them. Sometimes, when I listen closely, I hear whimpers and whispers. They are dead but not quite dead. They are just buried. They exist in other people’s memories, these versions of me that lay at my feet. Even the ones I do not remember. To someone out there she is the only me that they know.
They could resurface if I wanted them to, I guess. If I dug into their graves, I could get them out but I’d have to replace them with my current self. A body for a body.
This body is becoming heavy in my arms. I have to bury her. I can’t keep lugging her around with my new self. Sometimes, she gains new strength and tries to strangle the new self. I can’t let that happen.
I have to bury her before she comes to live again. Rest in peace, to all of us.
