Wednesday, October 2, 2013


She peeks into the silvered eldritch depths whose rippling, ensorcelled reflection enraptures her completely. The mirror is an affirmation of being and sanctification of self hood. If she were to deconstruct the constituents of this self gaze she would meet her antithesis converging with her. Her being is tremulous and requires an act of will to authenticate it. She is privy to the pleasures of narcissism yet a precarious undercurrent of indeterminacy studs it.

The mirror is impassive, a form of non being. It's silvered rim gleam coruscatingly under the crepuscular dusk where the luminous moon, burgeoning, casts everything it alights on with an unsullied whiteness. The glass vitrifies her image into itself. It transmutes nebulous intimations into circuitous self regard, inevitably culminating in an apotheosis whose tenuousness is momentarily suppressed but never obliterated. She conceals her uncertainty under a patina of solipsistic self assurance. Being gleams iridescently but the gloaming of insidious darkness renders the pleasures of self complacence wavering and quivering, in the wake of its own inadequacy.

The answer to her incontrovertible beauty , her ineluctable singularity which she seeks is a projection and externalization of the voice within. Hope outweighs doubt, amorphous certitudes surmount excoriating self doubt. She is accoutred impeccably in self regard yet her unconscious, repository of her vertiginous depths, reservoir of her unknowability prickles with unguessed at profundities whose indiscernible nature augments her shaking faith.

Yet remnants of self possession ratify the image, which is her own, and indubitably stipple it with daubs of inviolable beauty whose ubiquity, putative at best, nugatory at worst, affirms a being whose thereness and ontological crystallization redoubles its hieroglyphic anteriority. She could traverse a collective, navigate the tenebrous wastes of the reconfirmation of her undeniable beauty the world proclaims but it is in self communion with the mirror that a vestige of identity reposes. She unspools after immersion, she abrogates uncertainty insofar as what she discerns is a shaky buttressing of knowledge. The mirror, on the other hand is a multifarious conglomeration of constantly configurable aegis . A glimpse into consciousness yields uncertainty and only the scaffolding of intransigent becoming propels continuation of self deception. She is, she becomes. She becomes, therefore she is. Yet the is, contingent of if dissolves into nothingness when from her deeper depths emerges a being that throws into complete self destructive impulse, aspects of what she has made of herself. Either she could solder with this extrapolation or destroy what it contains. She chooses annihilation.

Tuesday, October 1, 2013


Whenever i visit my psychiatrist i see schizophrenics wrapped up in the involuted world of their hallucinations. And something in me wants to break open their mind, understand the constituents of their hallucinations and delusions and affirm that the fears they undergo are universal, that the psychosis that constitutes them comes from us, our communality, our collective consciousness. But i know that they will be given medication which, though alleviating their misery would also obliterate the larger consciousness from where these psychotic thoughts arose.

I visit my psychiatrist and try to articulate some of what i feel . He is receptive, cordial and respectful but uncomprehending. We revert back to my current healthfulness and blood tests and all the paraphernalia of chemical bipolarity. I shake hands and we part. Yet the train of association which witnessing those schizophrenics had sparked is obdurate and unavailing. It insists on itself. The threaded associations it contains expand, with the billowing of my consciousness, to embrace people, culture, society, history and memory.

As an ngo counselor i get opportunities to observe people. And most times what i discern is a disaffection with the external world a helpless awareness that the platitudes proffered are inadequate and unsatisfying. Yet most people who putatively recover, do not leave their therapist's offices having inner experience affirmed or the depths of being explored. They emerge, suffused with probity and self righteousness, armed with appurtenances to navigate a jaded world smoothly. They configure but their configurations are subsumed in the quotidian. The transformative experience of breaking down is never perceived. Instead the individual is made to feel a certain lacunae in their apprehending of the world, some emotional anomaly the restitution of whose integument would solve everything.

We put on masks and construct identities. We regard the individual as a fulcrum, an inviolable singularity. We are aware of what we need and desire but unaware of the same needs and desires in the other. We want to be heard, we want our essential presence affirmed, we want to demonstrate our there-ness. Yet how much of the other do we hear. Sheathed smugly in our cocoon of self sufficiency we negate experience, both ours and of the other. We abrogate our humaneness. We are so obsessed with self expression that we seek analysts to pour forth fusillades of pent up frustrations. We express disillusionment. What we don't realize is that the malaise whose external presence  we excoriate is actually a propensity within. Our expectations outweigh our responsibilities. We are fast fragmenting at a rapid rate. We are embracing the anodyne compensations of the singular by denying the collective. We are solipsistically submerging in our own corporeality. The ties that bind us have become precarious. We trudge forth tenuously, hoping for a soldering yet fearful of self exposure.

What has persisted as a constant amid all this compartmentalization is our storytelling impulse. We may trace an anteriority but we won't find a focal temporal reference. But we have the stories, the stories we created out of nothingness to create being out of non being. The possibility of recovering an ostensible wholeness is rather tenuous. But we can crystallize our indeterminate propinquities and create something out of the impasse of non being, to create hope out of cleaving and togetherness. That way, we can look ahead.

Monday, September 30, 2013


I was trawling the hall of mirrors that day, hoping for a glimpse into undiscerned depths of being. Yet the multitudes of reflections that reflected me back to myself were so profuse and variegated that my essence was obliterated in their midst. What that essence was to be was itself highly nebulous since seeing is contingent on perceiving. Yet so enraptured was i at the prospect of these numerous reflections that i, in partaking of their myriad richness, with ingenuous delight, returned homewards sated and fulfilled.

Remnants of those coruscating reflections, however continued to haunt me. And possessed of an exegetical propensity i began ruminating on the possibilities of what i had absorbed. And it stuck me, with pertinacious vigor that what i had managed to, unbeknown to myself, registered today was a proliferation of selves and possibilities The blueprint of my being dispersed, refracted and reconstituted into a mosaic. I was composed of polymorphous variations, singular and indivisible yet cohered into a whole with each arabesque patterned and whorled fluidly yet impeccably. To search for an essence amid this inexhaustible bounty would have been an endeavor to locate a temporal fulcrum. And the mediation of becomings these reflections proffered rendered the attribution of anteriority redundant.

What these reflections, in actuality seemed to propel was facsimiles of being, inverted and recreated. It began with the idea of a contextual being whose existence was its own affirmation. Into that tabula rasa, that blank ontological palimpsest were projected scintillating reflections, ricocheting, jostling, condensing, retracting, conjoining and severing. These undulant patterns of possibilities postulated a being that could be appropriated, accoutered and if necessary divested. Slivers of opportunities for creation abounded, suffused with protean energies . Into this vast pool of conglomeration lay the essence of who i was yet i was, in essence, essentially a component of this vast pool of nothingness from whence i was to emerge. Herein lay a blankness, an emptiness, compounded of nothingness yet constitutive of creation and i was being subsumed in this cavalcade of empty spaces wherein i could become a subject from the reflections of me, who was, in a sense a being but a being in potentia, an approximate being who could, from these latent, nascent hieroglyphs of identity, become a whole being.

And become i would but only by inevitably validating that i was a being who became yet became from an undifferentiated concatenation of nuanced hypotheses, as yet uncrystallized. That the being i carved for myself was as potent and as palpable a becoming as were the other reflections from whose amalgamated differences i became myself. The only way my being could be was by letting other putative beings be. The loopholes in the metaphysics of anthropomorphism has made a subject out of me. Iridescent crenellations have soldered to compactly sheathe an indeterminate me. Indeterminacy is my ontology and it is as an unequivocally self made being that i intend to be.