I was in the bookshop yesterday. I hadn't been there in a while. Since my brother came back from Paris, bringing loads of gift items(books, mostly), I didn't see the need to.
Something fundamental, since I last visited a bookstore, I realize, had been missing in my life. God. Some people find him in the church, in the mosque, in a temple, but I find him in the bookshop. I go there, and I remember who I'm supposed to be(or at least, who I think I'm supposed to be); my life suddenly finds meaning. I leave, and He leaves with me, in a brand new book I purchased.
I visit God a lot because I am suicidal. I have been for as long as I remember. And a lot of times it's the tiniest encounters that make the feeling resurface: either an argument, acting displeased towards a cloth my tailor sewed, or closing a deal with a salesperson and having him or her change their minds. Most of the time, it isn't about what was said during the course of our interaction, it's about how I didn't do this, or how I couldn't be better, or how I couldn't let it go, or how I couldn't make a better choice, a better bargain, or be more appreciative.
I'm writing this, not because I want to sulk again(I'm sorry, I know I do that a lot), but because I know there are people here like me. As I write, I'm having to analyse myself also. As they say: We heal as we grow, we seal as we go(I just made that up. Ha, ha, ha, ha!).
It usually starts like this, this feeling of depression. I forget to look left while crossing the street. A driver yells, "Olori buruku. It would never be well with you. If I had jammed you now they will call me a murderer," and for hours I relive the incident, thinking about what he said, how he said it, and why I didn't look left before crossing the road. Then it morphs into so many other things like, "God, I don't have a job" , "God, I'm probably never going to", "God, why do I feel the need to be with myself all the time, when my mates are getting married? I'm never going to be with anyone", and "This is not normal. I am not supposed to be this way. I don't know how to do anything..." And it goes on and on, and on. Then I write, and the voices leave me. And when I don't write, I don't do so because I want to hold on to the feeling for as long as comfort will let me; because misery loves a little company.
Yesterday I came across a plainspoken video. It was of an India man addressing a crowd with a slide. On it was a diagram of various circles and arrows; every arrow serving a unique purpose--connecting each circle to one question: "Do you have a problem in life?" Two answers: "Yes, or No," and one answer: "Why worry?"
What the slide meant to portray was, however you go, round and round in circles, good or bad, WHY WORRY?
Do you have a problem in life?
Yes
- Can you do something about it?
Yes
Then why worry?
Do you have a problem in life?
Yes
Can you do something about it?
No
Then why worry?!
For some of us, the problem, usually, is remembering how to find God. We forget the address of the place we last saw Him. We forget the name of a friend who sounds like Him. We forget the book we last read Him in. We forget a lot of things that could remind us of how brittle human life is.
Fever, by J. M. G. Le Clezio. Winner of the 2008 Nobel Prize for Literature. That's the book I bought when I visited the bookshop yesterday. I usually don't go with friends to the bookshop because that's the only time I get to be with God in such a public space. I run my fingers through rows and rows of books until He speaks to me. He always does.
Dear friends, dear sufferers of ill emotions, I hope that you find God in that special place, always, every time you 'forget'. I hope He stops you. I hope He takes you, firmly, by the wrist, and shakes off your disease. I hope He touches you, and when you feel for Him, too, I hope he feels like paper, scents like a tree, and is smooth and warm and safe. I hope He feels good in your hand, wherever you go with Him. And when people ask you: "Why do you love that book so much? You carry it everywhere you go." I hope you say, "I don't know. It smells like God, feels like God, tastes like God." You'd be surprised, 'cause then they'll say: "Ah, don't eat God o! It's just paper," but you know better.