Reading my own Eulogy
Reading my own Eulogy
By Tony DeLorger © 2011
It is with regret that I stand before you today to attempt to qualify and in some way quantify a life cut so short by his own hand. In a metaphoric sense, this self-decline is at the expense of a turbulent and fractious relationship with life. This struggle, from birth, defined a soul who never felt a real part of humanity in the way most people do.
This separateness and felt individuality always kept this soul at arms length, never feeling at ease with the convention of open vulnerability. In relationships there was always love and sacrifice unqualified, but there was a part of this soul that felt it should not be there, was perhaps in the wrong place. This odd spectre of thought kept this soul moving, changing, in an attempt to find solace.
Creativity has been that solace in all its forms. The normal aspirations of settling down, creating family, a career and acquiring wealth were far from purpose. Family alone held this life together, gave single purpose and meaning to a man bereft of most human ambition. Expression remained the lifeblood of his existence, surging relentlessly forward in an attempt to find perfection.
Sensitivity is a challenge in life, and hypersensitivity a burden. The creative soul strives for perfection and in order to do that must open to a universe and knowledge so complex and transient the mind can only grasp small snippets at a time. This soul took on more and he found himself immersed by human suffering and pain, privy to the wild and erratic thinking and emotions of passing humanity. This has taken its toll.
As a result and through sheer necessity, this soul became reclusive, choosing very carefully who to let into his life and to not be subject to the trials and desperate emotionality of acquaintances. This of course created loneliness and a further withdrawal. Marriages have been disastrous, being responsible enabling the partners to follow their own misguided inadequacies, searching in all the wrong places for truth and abandoning their own children as a consequence. This, in a way was preferable, the care and loving support of children always came first.
In delivering a eulogy, it is pertinent to share the accomplishments of the deceased, but I shall do no such thing. For a writer, the quality and value of his work can only be judged on his last work. Everything written previously leads to the next work and the evolution of the writer is in a continual state of flux. Suffice to say the cycle never ends and the writer never satisfied, always striving for better. This is the nature of being an artist.
This life strived for perfection, while God looked down and realised he’d already created it. This life trembled under the weight of humanity, failed, created, loved and grew. He attempted to live true to himself and not to compromise his beliefs. He wrote to learn and wrote to teach and learned much more than he taught.
In conclusion, children have been his greatest love and the love of a beautiful creature with whom he shared his life. Writing has been his salvation, his thoughts and feelings shared with a world he didn’t always relate to. His conflict with life and all its harm has in the end brought him undone, weathered him to the bone. By his own hand and mind he has coerced death to follow him and to plan his demise. May God have mercy on his soul.
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