When i knew him, way back then i assumed i understood him perfectly because i understood myself perfectly. Unequivocal clarity of self made ineluctable lucidity regarding him. Yet my desire to 'know' was chiefly constituted by my desire to 'be'. In knowing him i could be myself. Yet i have to confess, with helpless honesty, my failure at comprehension. He was so evanescent that he eluded grasp. I didn't want to pigeonhole him but i wanted a bedrock, a fulcrum wherein i could ensconce myself snugly in the comfort of complacency. But this smugness, given his evasiveness, and considering my own disinclination to accept the meretricious as authentic, alienates me from myself.
The scruffy sand abrades my toes, rasping the crenellations of my flesh deliciously. The friable striations of compacted sand, tenuously soldered, crumble into particles under the insistent pressure of my footsteps. The dappled streaks of monolithic reflections and abstractions brought into momentary clarity by the moon emerges fitfully, ephemerally, affording a nebulous glimpse before disappearing beneath the subfusc perishability of the elements. The waves are lapping against my feet, the tide rising, the ebb billowing and i long, for a moment to be dissolved and submerged by the incessant cycles of nature , to repose in the amniotic sea womb and obliterate, purely as temporary reprieve, the vicissitudes of the quotidian.
Yet metaphysics, with its inveterate abstrusities discomposes me from crystallizing my resolve. My cogitations on recondite phenomenon is rooted in the here and now. At times, the neon casts coruscating slivers of distilled light that illumines briefly yet the light , filtered through the crepuscular landscape is tremulous. Its luminosity is blurred, muffled and within the introspective gaze of my penumbral consciousness completely blotted out. The landscape mirrors the somberness and despair i feel.
Can another being be fully apprehended? And what, after all, is knowledge? Is it that canopy of buttressed lucency that illuminates ceaselessly? Or is is that hinterland where what is putatively known and what is knowing intersect equivocally. I don't think my knowledge of myself is sufficient to make him transparent. My own self knowing is unknowable, irradiated by infinitesimal moments of being yet in its totality, rendered amorphous. It all hinges on being, what being both as ontology and epistemology represents. Or is a knowledge of anteriority itself an episteme.
I can't trace back the beginning of my fascination with him as it is composed of fragmentary arabesques that don't cohere. But i do know what i have become i.e a forever melancholy, brooding, restless person. So my knowledge of my becoming is both retrospective and immediate. Yet as i exist and sift through the concatenation of my intermeshed stipples of experience i resign myself to his unfathomability. He is an indecipherable hieroglyph whose constituents are uncapturable. All we have are our intermittent interminglings which skirt our surfaces but plumb nothing. Perhaps that illusion is our only knowledge.