Wednesday, October 30, 2013

AT THE RIM

1
He remembers. Yet he misremembers. Experience is a thick mist, deepening over time, quickening the vast expanses of memory here, reality there. He holds up these daubs and creates out of their inchoate mesh of different meanings, a semblance of order. His being expands, iridescent specks of joy gleam in his eyes as the moment of creating, making anew, stretches further and further into oblongs of expanding imperceptible epiphanies before bursting into the vast nothingness of inexpressible happiness.

2

He believes, at such points in time, a certain sense of owning reality, of having analyzed the profundity of life's labyrinthine meanderings and wrested his own sense of balance. His being is flecked with richness, unctuous lubricity at the prospect of his plumbing into life's hidden depths. He experiences moments of extraordinary exultation yet somehow, somewhere an undercurrent of uncertainty underpins it. In going beyond the temporal he inveigles and threads back into his realm of life's burgeoning dimensions, the cold, hard reminder of time.

3

Time could have irradiated , within its interstices, all prospect of self realization. Yet it is to his physical being he reverts, the significations of mortality that oppress him. The quotidian, webbed in consciousness to the metaphysical, could have provided stipples of transcendence, brushstrokes whose variegation could have reconstituted reality into a more agreeable and coherent pattern. Still the dread and misery of attrition and entropy propels him, but as a signification of having arrived and rendered static.

4

There is an anterior he discerns which proffers abiding comfort. His quest for apprehending it takes him further back, almost to the beginning of things. Filaments of luminosity emerge here and there, gleaming with certitude here, gloaming with the unknown there. Concussions of alternating rapture and disillusion concentrate and break in his mind, like waves. Memory weaves a tenebrous net around the halo of its opalescence. So a search for beginnings, leads him into spaces of non being. He falters at the realm of knowingness.

5
Eventually he delves deep into the recesses of his own being, hoping to find a fulcrum of self knowledge. Yet crenellations of casuistry, in complicity with the deceptiveness of recollection, undermine his journey into the dark. He could navigate being, unspooling, unraveling, throwing over its walls beams of an interrogatory gaze but in that blankness all that remains is a nothingness, a nothingness that led him to a something he had brought into being. He has reverted to his own anteriority.

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