Monday, December 29, 2014


A sense of penumbra.
Sometimes a suspension of factuality, more inveterate than it seems makes a shimmering opalescence that flickers off and on as perception is turned on and off like a lightbulb, sometimes volitionally, at others volitionlessly.
Beneath the iridescence of the ostensible the abyss yawns complacently knowing fully well in its subterranean depthlessness that a plunge a vertiginous submergence is inevitable wherein the tenebrous despite the luminosity that will fail to obviate its emptiness shall eventually triumph.
Hope denuded darkness. Darkness inundated consciousness. Consciousness constituted immeasurability. Immeasurable emptiness void. Void ineluctably enmeshed. Enmeshed Humanity flawed. Flawed inner self. Self only blank.
Glimmers  incandesced  hope  refraction  faith attenuated    belief    eschewal     doubt    prismatic variegation   truth
Analyst - 'This transference is necessary for closure'.
Patient -'you are the facilitating conduit'
Analyst -' Your psychosis is self healing'.
Patient-' Fragmentation is our inner reality',
Analyst -' coordinates of self dapple life'.
Patient - 'Life's depths problematize singularity'
A bird warbles outside. The sun sends forth rays of light that ricochet off the car windows. Profusion of trees with glistening fronds drip drops of water which become droplets that glitter in the retina with polychromatic variety. The sky is a cloudless expanse.
As the crepuscular gloaming betokens i take to bed . I know that the morning will be a different country. Life goes on.

Sunday, December 28, 2014


I saw him on a reality tv show. It was in german. I couldn't understand a word but i could see his animated expressions, thoughtful interjections and handsome profile. The beard was extremely agreeable and the smile infectious. In some infinitesimal second in the interstices of watching him and realizing i was in love i fell in love. I knew that i was acceding to appearances, to the reality of his projected self image which, given this was television, was ineluctable. I knew next to nothing about him, may probably never even meet him ever but i still fell in love and it was irresistible and overwhelming.
I often used to think i was in love but realized retrospectively ,that i wasn't. All the men i loved were loved for an amalgam of their appearance and superficiality. The moment i realized that the image didn't correspond to actuality i stopped being in love. I realize now that my very idea of love was unrealistic and disconnected from external reality. In a way ironically, i loved myself or attenuated my self love through the mediation of those i chose to fall in love with. Hence the constant disjunction between my imagination and unmitigated reality.
In all the loves and relationships in my life eroticism has been redundant or only a desideratum or substratum of larger, capacious feelings. When i used to fall in love i would contort my imagination to conceive of a sexual commingling. It isn't that i am a realist or even unambiguously so. I have a rich imagination but even its fecundating dimensions failed to dapple my consciousness with sexual possibilities. I might wrench out an intercourse in my mind by a forceful exercise of my numerous faculties but the fact that the nebulousness of corporeality undermined me was incontrovertible. I could supplant nothing this void left with anything. All remained vertiginously indeterminate.
But i do have love on offer and care. I proffer my probity and unambivalent regard as restitution. And it is this love that renders suspect, to my mind, imputations of narcissism. Because i choose to love as i would like to be loved i invariably inveigle a third party in the colloquy between myself and my projection. And the way i would like to be loved partakes of all the empathy, considerateness and largesse which are, i find, collective in nature. So while i seek to incandesce my being with what i seek which determines how i give i represent, albeit unintentionally, the aspirations that pertain to many of us.
The question of him who i saw on television If i engineer circumstances sufficiently i might articulate my love. I must be sagacious in spelling out conspicuously all the subterranean realms of goodness i allude to. At no point must a misattribution of concupiscence be misconceived. All this is the future but i forge ahead in my mind and life, to externalize the immanent, to find the love i seek.

Friday, December 26, 2014


Amid the multitude of instants where i thought i knew him i was foiled. My assiduous suppositions collapsed. It wasn't so much that he contravened my exegesis. It was more that he was so unambiguously himself that the patina i sought to illumine him with remained a nebulous silhouette. And because it was about me its failure was inevitable.
Why, i often ask myself was such a gloss of romanticism necessitated? Or perhaps romanticism isn't wholly accurate. I sought to demystify him by romanticizing him. By de idealizing him i sought to render my misgivings veracious. For misgivings they certainly were, with their overtones of disillusion and lack of faith. I tried hard to believe in him though being fully aware that all i was really doing was just trying hard. But not enough. A residual, subterranean intuition of his faithlessness invariably coloured my subsequent mythopoeias around him. So a whole circuitous journey of denial, wisdom, scepticism and leap of faith constituted my awareness of how i made him up.
That instant, though, when he revealed his true self came upon me quite accidentally. In the interstices of my discursive ambivalence i divined, as he gazed at himself in the mirror, unaware of my presence, a certain self absorption that mirrored mine. His inner life, the mechanisms of his own set of constructions was disavowed by me by virtue of my own self centrality. So enmeshed was i in this version of my ingenuity that i consciously overlooked the concomitant process of his own myth making.
And while my self centrality, though indubitably mine, nonetheless partook of him his self absorption rendered me null and void. And in that preening smugness of his glance at the mirror, the conceited, solipsistic communion of himself with him self i penetrated the heart of the lacuna in our relationship. While i vacillated between confidence and self doubt his self regard was unwavering. When i recalled his inveterate reticence and uncommunicativeness i now recalled not taciturnity but obduracy. And something in me balked at this incongruity between the ostensible and the actual though the two blurred and superimposed fortuitously.
I am, though beset by insecurities, unwilling to relinquish this insight of mine or to have it circumambulate the habitual pantomimes and oscillations it generally undergoes. I really think i've hit upon something here. As fas as he is concerned the communication of this disconcerting epiphany is inconceivable. But i've got this arabesque to build on and fathom hitherto unplumbed depths. And such a process is, though informed by sordid reality, an art form in itself

Wednesday, December 24, 2014


Presumably the partner is the diplomatic thing to say but i prefer husband. It has an intimacy, an expectancy of a sacred bond that is gratifying. I don't believe in marriage as a inalienably sanctified institution nor does my appellation of husband signify an unconscious allegiance to it. I merely appropriate, from the panoply of terms of reference around me the one i find most prepossessing. And i like the sound, heft, cadence and texture of it.
Strangely, even though together we form an indissoluble bond the external world seems evanescent. And perhaps this transitoriness deepens our bond, intensifies the love we have for each other which, though indubitably
veracious is nonetheless piquant . A sigh of pleasurable pain floats from my chest as my love for him, smites my heart with an irresistible poignancy. It seems then that there is too much love. But can there ever be too much love? Is love, the ultimate nebulousness, quantifiable.
Though i measure the alternating rhythms of my regard by juxtaposing them with the degree of intense feeling they rouse in me. It isn't that the intensity varies but is contingent on circumstances. All of a sudden, someone else has assumed centrality in my life. His concerns , worries, preoccupations coincide with mine. His happiness redoubles mine. Some thinkers postulate that romantic love is inherently self regarding. But as far as i'm concerned the ephemeral tissue that solders us is strong enough to withstand travails. The term romance too is circumscribing. There are layers, depths it doesn't plumb.
I also take into account the multitudinous variegations of his being. He can be occasionally sulky when he doesn't get his way or angry when things don't work out as he would like them to. There is a certain selfishness i discern , a precedence to value , under stressful conditions, his own well being before mine. No doubt he sees my weaknesses to but a treaty of reticence renders us circumspect. We both know the other knows, we feel those fibres striating our inner selves but the fibres are intertwined in spirals of interconnection which basically means that our avowals override our misgivings.
Ultimately mortality will reign. This little oasis, this tenuous scaffolding will undergo wear and tear, dents and fissures. Perhaps our closeness is augmented by the reality of our imminent deaths. But the when is fruitless to speculate on. There is the tapestry of our complex beings and there is this haven of luminosity, this block of time, that sustains us, with hope and buoyancy.

Monday, December 22, 2014


My desk is always shiny and neat. The telephone, my major stock in trade, buzzes insistently and frequently. I pick up the phone quickly, fix appointments for my boss, the analyst and jot down the details in a diary. Occasionally, if the patient is a neurotic, attention seeking kind i have a brief discussion with Dr. Wright, my boss, to deal delicately with a problematic patient. I am taciturn and polite and generally non interfering. The shouts and yells i hear from the closed room where patient and analyst interchange are largely ignored. I don't even wonder what is going on. I proceed to perform my menial work as unobtrusively as possible.
I do recognize the patients over a period of time. X ,i identify as the schizophrenic woman who sits silently, her hands twined around herself,with a glazed distant look. She is always unfailingly polite and decorous. Then there is A the anorexic young woman who is always ready to exchange pleasantries. I like her freckles and wide, toothy smile. I wonder whether her circumstances have improved but quash the thought as it is not strictly my concern. B, the suited booted businessman is brisk and peremptory, M, the secretary to a bank manager is officious and sanctimonious. Beyond greeting them politely and asking them to seat themselves my ministrations chiefly consist of circumspection and invisibility. I am a necessary but expendable mediator. I stall the proceedings with an interlude of propriety before the darkness of the human psyche , ineluctably materializes in patient/analyst colloquy.
I am rather unimaginative. I do my work, collect my pay and live a life of quotidian imperturability. My unconscious scarcely bothers me at all because maintaining a facsimile of a functional life is wearying enough. Occasionally i dream vivid, sexual dreams, centred around random people who i recall in my slumber. But these disquieting intimations of the corporeal are rarely discomfiting and never impinge on my consciousness.A dream is after all a dream and quite unremarkable. Whatever it may have to say about my inner life is irrelevant because my routines will be unaltered, my unimportance unchanged. So the whole point of excoriating my mind, given the staidness of my protracted structure around life, is frankly unnecessary and fruitless.
Sometimes a patient with conspiratorially confide a secret or a problem which they then hint, with becoming flushes of self consciousness, that the psychoanalyst wouldn't understand. I am told that i have a glamorous job ,as a assistant to a shrink. 'You must meet so many interesting people' being the breathless exhalation of prurience from my interlocutors. As i alluded to above reticence keeps me afloat.
I have never experienced depression but i have felt sadness. An indefinable sadness, inchoate yet momentary. I bounce back pretty fast. I do take sleeping pills though because the tedium of the working day, unrelieved by any spark of conflagaration, enervates me, rendering even sleep impossible to submerge into seamlessly.
Today my boss called me in, asking routine questions about whether i was having problems with the job and my health. He has cancelled all appointments today. His eyes rove over me thoughtfully,speculatively. On impulse he asks me to lie on the couch. He tells me, avuncularly, to free associate. Initially i am hesitant and my mind, unaccustomed to rumination, faces a stasis. But suspending all misgivings, evincing loquaciousness, i pour forth my consciousness unimpeded by rational restraint.
I am deeply resentful that a portion of my salary is deducted as fees for analysis, thrice a week. But presumably it is for the best. Patients who come now are no more spectral or consigned to wilful oblivion and dealt with formally. We speak fulsomely now, exchange stories, histories neurosis.And in a way by discovering that i am not what i thought i was or repressed precipitately due to both inertia and purposelessness i have now come alive.

Sunday, December 21, 2014


As i sit comfortably in my armchair there is much to please my retina The penumbra outside ,punctuated by stipples of neon, give forth an agreeable opalescence. Inside the chequered whorls of the tablecloth, studded with sequins, gleam iridescently. Dots of luminosity flash before my eyes, pinpricks of points of light, flickering, momentary yet persistent.
The dish of pasta on the table is fuesli. Macaroni like spirals interweave to form a constellation of softened fragments with mushrooms and onions in them. The whole mass is densely lumped together, higgledy piggledy. That's how i prefer it anyway. The bowl is cream coloured, speckled with daubs of inchoate arabesques,that mirror the spiralline pasta within. All in all there is an agreeableness to it that is highly prepossessing.
The day began with preparations. Going to the supermarket on a soggy morning, overcast, damp, smelling of garbage and rain. The grabbing of a trolley, carting it across, putting together the assorted ingredients packed in cans striped and streaked with lurid paint and loud labels. Then the momentary cessation that rain necessitated and finally the trip home.
And now the dish lies before me, to be microwaved and consumed. While the white sauce striating the fuesli is appetizing the whole soggy ,lumpen mass diminishes appetite . The impression i get is of the inside of the human brain. The lumpish mass, though olfactorily gratifying is spiritually enervating. I have composed  this dish with the paraphernalia of consumerist accoutrements. Each garnishing, addition, grating, excision and putting together indicates, to me, the abnegation of my spiritous essence. I was prompted by hunger, propelled by craftsmanship but when my tools disgust me the finished product redoubles the repugnance.
Yet these metaphysical speculations discomfit me. My stomach rumbles with hunger. But will the satiation of bodily hunger lead to a sacrifice of my spiritual sense. Given that the tablecloth is lovely and the bowl agreeable and the aura of the external soothing does this recondite reasoning indicate an unconscious misgiving. Or the surreal effluvium of the brain that impulse  betokens hearken back to a sci fi movie i saw yesterday night. There is a schizoid split in me between the compendium of associations that complicate my partaking and the ipso facto reasonableness of having troubled myself sufficiently to have cooked in the first place. In order to make a choice i suspend choice. My mind goes blank.
A spaceship with fried human brains embalmed intersects with the diagnosis of depression i received yesterday which conjoins with the philosophy books i've been reading lately amalgamated with my dream yesterday of a perfectly prepared pasta that i sought to actualize commingled with the ever louder rumble of my stomach. Disparate images, thoughts, reflections aggregate in a random mess, permutated chaotically, with no recognizable shape or form. A concatenation has occurred, an indeterminacy i can neither fathom or decipher or sort through by reverting to its constituents. Chaos builds up, builds up until my hunger supersedes.
I pick up the fork and eat.

Friday, December 19, 2014


He was an emanation of my unconscious. Or so i thought then. I thought that by demonstrating self awareness about the fact of my unconscious i would be wary of the very emanations i was imposing on him. Theoretically i remained cognizant of this proclivity but at a practical level, given that life unravelled in its own fashion, with its own immutable logic, though of necessity protean, my self awareness dissipated.
The worrisome thing was not that my idea of him remained a mere abstraction. Had it been so i'd have been relieved to forego all preconceptions and settle for an openness, a willingness to allow myself to be surprised. As it manifested, though, some of my blueprints became true. It seemed that while i had not been entirely accurate in my making up of him, given my awareness of such a thing, i had, nonetheless, divined propensities that corresponded to my conceptualization.
For instance i could see that while he was ostensibly tractable there was a core of stubbornness in him. Unlike me, who had grave self doubts, he was unambiguously confident about what he thought he was. I could see that this was self deception, a protective armour to conceal, albeit through a willed repression, things that were disturbing. Simultaneously, with him, there was a feeling that certain things were inconceivable to his self image.
However though he evinced such self confidence he worsened my tremulous sense of myself.When i did confide my misgivings he encouraged me to doubt myself. Again there was a putative adherence to amenability to my ideas around myself but in crystallizing my precarious self constitution he fattened up on that very tenuousness. As i grew weaker in my conception of identity i began losing all faith that i'd ever be whole. I was often irascible and peremptory,attributes which he ineluctably brought into sharper focus by his seeming acceptance of them.
Of course it is equally possible that i am manufacturing the fact of my discernment of his subterranean dimensions to validate and affirm my own unknowingness. This is manipulation of the worst kind and i am certainly watchful of it. But my instinct, which in the past has proven accurate at many levels, asseverates that my misgivings are true enough. It is simply that my inveterate self doubt, unavoidably coalesced to my being, insists on rendering apocryphal any certainty that buttresses me, however ineffectually.
Ultimately this relationship, for whatever reason, is not working out. Either i will go crazy or inflict some damage on him. I do apportion a certain blame to my own over wrought process of rationalization and partly he seem to augment some of the worst things i feel about myself. Or such is my intuitive apprehension . I think wisdom lies in terminating this relationship. Self preservation must take precedence. And something tells me he'd be better off without my neurotic undermining of any stability he envisages for us. I think i'll see a therapist.


Memory, unbidden, unfurls the moment. The moment, analogous to and like the flower ,is enclosed by petals of constituent moments that are closed in, overlapping, interleaved to each other. When the random incandescence of memory alights on the flower the petals unclose and a variegated aureole encloses a bud in the centre . The bud is the moment, the kernel, the skein enmeshed in the mosaic. The bud sends forth carillons of associations that reverberate and ricochet. This moment is the bud because it is the chosen one, albeit indeterminately. It nestled amid other moments, shielding itself being shielded until wrenched to consciousness.
The moment is inhabited by memory and tilted, turned upside down, condensed, compressed, concentrated, attenuated until its bittersweet juices are extracted and wrung out. The moment, in the integument of memory, is never constant.It undergoes metamorphoses, both palpable and amorphous. The moment is imbued with a causality of its own which is then revivified though (re) flection. Certain components adhere, some slough off, some are reduplicated but the flow of consciousness as it traverses the moment is unaltered.
Ultimately the moment occupies a valedictory space, its vertiginous significations have been absorbed, dispersed and reconstituted by the moment which recalled that moment. Two moments intersect but in some nebulous way the apprehending of reality is transmogrified.Until memory recalls it again.

Thursday, December 18, 2014


The telephone rang. I heard its insistent ring. I was unwilling to hoist myself out of bed. But some impulse propelled me towards the telephone. I groped about in the dark and my leg bumped into the bedside. A yelp of pain shot through me as the pain built up. I hobbled . By the time i limped towards the telephone it had gone silent. The insistent caller, exasperated by delay, must have cut the connection.
Thus severed from contact with a person who remained unknown i cast about in my imagination to formulate his identity, Or hers as Myriads of names flashed through my consciousness alerting, by the causal nature of my life, a compendium of people who might have rung knowing, as i did, despite being inveigled by my own complicity into this speculation, that they very well might not have, that, ultimately my unprofitable surmises might furnish my imagination with ample fodder to fritter away a few minutes while my consciousness, just awoken from slumber, struggled to readjust to a wakeful consciousness which, by intimating the inexorability of the day and the factuality of having woken up, betokened that yes, the time to stir, to be alert has now emerged.
I reflected as i woke up that is to say woke up cognitively on how i had in my metamorphoses from slumber to wakefulness managed to distort reality by challenging its coordinates unconsciously through a process of rumination that partook of the uncertainty of this reality but nevertheless reconfigured it by imbuing it with a certain unalterable sense of consciousness and what i'm trying to say was that the identity of the caller was unknown to me but in that interlude i had undergone a transformation of consciousness wherein visible reality which is the phone call because i heard it was supplanted with inner reality which was the processes of my ratiocination and that ultimately if i separated each from the other the call and the caller would be indivisibly conjoined yet irrevocably separate in both my mind and the external reality that encompassed them given my lassitude in being untimely in my traversing of the dream hinterland which stalled the phone ring but activated my imagination.
'We need an x-ray', the doctor said,' to check for hairline fracture'
'It is sore and swollen. I bumped into the bed stead in the morning while trying to pick up the phone' i said.
'Who was it ,who was calling that made you rush so 'the doctor inquired busily while feeling my knee.
'oh i don't know. The phone stopped before i could find out' i sheepishly rejoined.
The x ray showed no fracture
'There, there's no fracture but you need to rest up your leg for a bit. Ice packs and a paracetomol for the pain' he asseverated as he bandaged up my leg and helped me off the stool.
'Thank you'. . was my plaintive though thankful riposte.
Meanwhile clouds are scattered in the sky, unthreatening but hinting at a possible rainfall. A robin chirps and warbles, its arias of joyousness commingle with the surroundings. An ant busily zigzags along carrying a grain of something on its back. The leaves sway gently. The robin's breast glows iridescently, the clouds gradually conglomerate, sunlight shades into opalescence and a drop of rain brushes my cheek.
I am home. But i have this injury to convalesce from and the answering machine has a message left by the dentist to remind me of my appointment day after.

Tuesday, December 16, 2014


The apple glowed like red cheeks
With a sheen which, luscious
Sinuous, voluptuous, made her sink
Her pearly white teeth which, indenting,
Inscribing, incorporated a future which
Would be both durationless and temporal.
He, consumed with guilt replicates
The intransigence of her sin
Though god he contritely placates
He loses moral ground amid his faultless din
She, meanwhile, sifts the ages
To locate her disempowered fulcrum
The apple crops up incessantly as
A metonym of the inadmissible and
Symbolizes her lowliness to herself.
Often she thinks of the old white man
Of his long beard caressing her silken thighs
But ultimately, when he swoops down and rapes her
Saviour and destroyer mirror each other.
His beak tears open her innards as a
wordless cry emerges from her being
Falling soundlessly amid an indifferent cosmos.
So being turns inwards. She turns herself inside out,
Becomes the rib to lash the rib that made her become.
These pertinent expostulations, which he, despite his
Complicity disregards, become echoes which duplicate
In her eardrums, circumambulating her integument.
Now, though, today she speaks
Within her troughs and peaks
Of how he negated his crime
By overlaying her with grime.
The serpent lives in both their minds
Like a reflection denied and consigned
Yet he crops up at moments
To remind them that
Despite their difference they are one
With a master or leader none
What's inside needs to resolve
Only then will transcendence, amid corporeality, revolve.


The story of my life. Well it is rather ponderous to conceive of a story, let alone of my rather uneventful life. All i can proffer are mnemonics and thought processes, ruminations which, though alternately sanguine and painful, nonetheless are inconsequential. The pattern of my ratiocination might yield an odd nugget here and there but my formulations, once prized for their singularity, have revealed themselves, with time, to be part of a continuum of a larger consciousness. Thus i oscillate between a defusing of my perspicacious grandiloquence and relief that my nebulous adumbrations, which accumulated certainties as i measured them with my experience, have been cogitated by others. Sometimes philosophical reflections can induce great solitariness particularly if they are counter to our cherished certainties. I do make the requisite emendations, never abrogating external reality but the challenge is a workable concordance between inner and outer, a confluence that renders them indivisible yet intersectional.
The idea of a story around one's life invokes the element of randomness and happenstance. It crystallizes the incertitude. It demonstrates that narrative control is chimerical and can be embroidered and permutated differently. Even more striking is the irreconcilable gap between what i seek to convey and its absorption by my interlocutors. This underlying amorphousness necessitates a relinquishing of control which discomfits me greatly. I would like to be in control, even while transmitting the incommunicable. I would like to believe that my readers are looking glasses who reflect me a version of myself unambivalently. But a looking glass confounds such self deception by compounding unknowability. And the question that arises, from within the interstices of a narrative whether our stories are really our own, whether the 'I' behind them is constant. Everything is flux, metamorphosis, including the self and to wish otherwise is to inhabit an imaginary prelapsarian dimension where our blueprints correspond to externality .
Also the idea of a story implies weightiness, ponderousness. A sufficiency of subject matter, presented interestingly, would deepen the enjoyment and involvement of a reader. But the disjointed nature of my thoughts, though indisputably fascinating are, nevertheless too fragmented to be comforting. They are imbued with verisimilitude, they are mimetic representations of the transitoriness of real life but such ingenuous replication, though ineluctably subversive, would lack consistency and continuity which a story affords. A story has a predetermined pattern whereas real life is misshapen, indeterminate and sometimes formless. A story is an imaginative reconstruction of the primevality of real life and implies conscious control which is salutary given our volitionless reality.
But it does strike me, with precipitant promptitude that even if the narrative of my life were diffused and unknowable it would still be a story. It would embody an account of itself in terms where a shape would emerge, a form which, by encompassing uncertainty, would intensify the narrative element that is subterranean. A story is kinetic, protean as is my life. As it meanders and traverses the pathways of self expression it will undergo incessant transmogrifications. Shreds and fragments will be sloughed off, added, conjoined or severed. But continuation and perpetuation of the story telling impulse would be unaltered though the shifts it undergoes will validate a transmutation and metempsychosis that would be incontrovertible. So perhaps my life is a story or stories,in themselves, are blueprints of life.

Sunday, December 14, 2014


When i emerged from the bedroom i felt soiled, rather than repletion.Because today he tied me up by the hands while fucking me. It wasn't hurtful but it was uncomfortable. I felt the cords of the silken rope indenting my wrists, rasping my palms. I felt ticklish and petulant and found no outlet for either. The sight of his pleasure, palpable, offered scant recompense. Rather it exacerbated my anger. His claim that our lovemaking be more primal, exciting and adventurous bores me to death. Sex bores me. And with these unprepossessing appendages my loathing redoubles.
I had hoped that once our relationship became securer sex would cease to be a determining factor. But his unceasing voracity alarms me. It isn't as if i disdain sex or negate its necessity but for him it seems more like a fulcrum. To me love, regard, companionship are distinguishable from sex because they inhabit a landscape where a certain maturity and sagaciousness is necessitated. An observance to a paradigm of closeness that transcends the physical. But here, with him, i feel as though i am regressing into a primeval realm of corporeality that offsets my more social, relational instincts. More than the crude lovemaking, which i can tolerate somewhat, it is the abrogation of the austerity impulse that distresses me.
I don't boast of a particularly sanguine temperament but decency has always seemed vital to me. When his beard abrades my chin during kissing, when his gropings seem like defilements i wonder how this person whom i love can ,in his physiognomy , be so repugnant. It seems to me that i sever his emotional being from his sexual being. Perhaps he sees them as one and the same.
Presumably what also determines his degree of amiability in my perception of it, is the preponderance of the emotional self. It is there that i discern an authenticity and veracity that pleases me. I do see a hedonism which too is part of his being. But i like to believe that his better impulses supersede his baser nature. Again it is not the baser nature as much as the baseness, the debasement of it that is frightening to behold. He is otherwise salurary and warm, suffused with agreeable appurtenances but when he has sex with me i feel deracinated. A disembodied sensation, of a fundamental split between my body and consciousness occurs and it is vertiginously precipitous though also dizzyingly thrilling, with its chasms hinting at a reversion that is delicious.
What i fear is that my own sense of dissolution becomes apparent when we have sex. I experience a deep desire to submerge, be subsumed. And watchfulness, cognizance of my own baseness is ineluctable. It is my hope that my sublimation will be a springboard to his own apotheosis.

Thursday, December 11, 2014


As recompense, and judiciously so, my inertia works wonders. My overstimulated imagination , compounded by my inherent suspicion of the prolongation of anything salutary, creates frantic arabesques that churn in the mosaic of my relationships. A jigsaw shifts, gets dispersed, relocates, the kaleidoscope undergoes incessant flux but my outward imperturability, which is really inertia ensures that an unaltered externality, even if it is a simulacrum, persists as a remnant.
I don't attribute my suspiciousness to my inherent scepticism. I am a product of a culture of provisionality and i began as an ingenuous novice, believing implicitly in the efflorescence of probity that underlay human consciousness. Anomalous demonstrations to the contrary too were brushed aside as incalculably counterbalancing. But when i discovered, to my accumulating dismay, that the putatively incongruous was de rigueur , that the unconscionable was , in a worldly sense comme il faut ,i experienced a profound disillusionment. And human goodness, certainly preponderant in many luminous countenances has, though witnessed sufficiently, failed to obviate or offset the larger disenchantment whose presence is proportionate to its presence in my peregrinations of human contact.
My partner has managed to, unsurprisingly, be oblivious to these inward exegetical excoriations of mine. I think the pattern of indolence i ostensibly emanate satisfies him. His obtuseness was the trait in him which drew me to him. If it was a stupid obtuseness or a bovine fatuousness i wouldn't come near him at all. But it is a willed obtuseness, a concentrating together of all the forces of repulsion that ensure that the mechanism of stability, attenuated through forcefields of abstracted goodwill, assiduously circumvent the importunate reminders of discomfiture which , repulsed agreeably through forceful denial refract into disjointed pixels the rejoining of which poses such an exertion of being that a consignment to oblivion becomes an occupational hazard.
So, subterraneously i know that my partner divines my frantic ebbs and flows despite my rather realistic awareness that he suppresses their disquieting intimations as precipitately as i reinstate a flurry of inconsequential nattering to waylay him. I have often noticed the furrow of puzzlement that striates his forehead when my immovability, otherwise interpreted as indolence, unnerves him as thoughtfulness. But i discern these imperceptible changes in his demeanour and circuitously steer the conversation onto more predictable, concurrent channels where the confluence of our concurrence is my augmentation of his denial and his buttressing of my acceptance of my reality.
I am rather pleased with this state of affairs. My ruminations of corporeal abdications of decency and humaneness redouble my self proclamation of myself as a realist. My simultaneously adroit suppression of this propensity from my interlocutor crystallizes my perspicacity. Ultimately this dichotomous paradigm, which i manufacture for my partner to witness only to defuse it ensures that his knowledge of my complexity will testify to the pantomime of illusion and reality that keeps this relationship going. And my performance , perfected each moment anew, pleases me immeasurably.

Wednesday, December 10, 2014


Cogitating, a great stimulus to epiphanies, has been with me all this while.It is perhaps an all too human need to have a form to sheathe vast experience in. That vast experience being, in itself, not a disembodied abstraction but a concatenation of interconnections, a confluence and conglomeration of iridescent arabesques that is interleaved to an expansive consciousness
A moment happens. A fatality occurs. A sliver of consciousness is detached and concentrated, its constituents are glazed , momentarily, with irrecoverable finality. The finality is kinetic because it is centred around a moment, a moment where happenstance and causality intersect . The moment which, though singular and indivisible is also an appurtenance where the density of other moments, with their attendant emotional intensities and importunities, weave in and out, ebb and flow. At each temporal instant fragments are allocated their metaphysical plenitude where they are centre stage, held luminously aloft for a long inspection, before subsumed precipitately into the larger panoply of energies that constitute a temporal existence.
But is the moment ingested and supplanted by other moments?Might not the moment dwell, linger, like a memory unsorted, unsifted, like a mourning incomplete. Might not the moment ,in the phosphorescent gloaming of incertitude, hearken back to itself, disconsolately, irresolutely , inconclusively. Might not the carillons and warbles of incandescence we consciously titinnabulate with be underlain by a crepuscular, penumbral cry of anguish. Or is it that both, like a musical note, hold symmetrically immanent the ostensible irreconcilables of a compartmentalized conceptualization of existence.
The warble and the aria, the shriek of anguish, the tenebrous, the luminous are huddled together in consciousness where experience, colluding with memory, confounded by caprice, compounded by indeterminacy take on kaleidoscopic patterns that refract prismatically the variegated , multi timbered, many faceted irreality of human life. Each stipple is a brush stroke that is indwelling in the tapestry. Each stripe, each streak revivifies manifold the polychromatic profundity of the uncapturable, the imperceptible yet the inexhaustible and indefatigable rumbusiousness of life.

Thursday, December 4, 2014


Inside the incarcerated catacomb of her mind she reposes. Her memory, albeit through her own complicity, is leaking out. When thinking through her history she finds huge craters in her consciousness with massive indentations . These are blank spaces. She is a tabula rasa but it isn't so much her writing her own script as it is being written for her.
The lecturer controls her memory. He doesn't consciously obliterate her memory but works on her through osmosis. Bit by bit he makes surreptitious inroads into her head, supplanting himself, his own being conspicuously so that she gradually forgets that she has a contingent history and being.
What occurs thereafter is a process of submergence. As his consciousness leaks into her she begins to see the world as he sees it, even interprets her own being as he does it for her. He becomes her superego so that the accretion of self reproaches she directs at herself which are, in actuality, his reproaches she not only suspends but relinquishes her self. The tattered remnant of her once incandescent integument flutters emptily in the winds of fortune.
The lecturer rapes her daily. The visitations of his brute flesh rends her corporeally. Each day she experiences a dismemberment, a symbolic and literal obliteration that contributes to the oblivion she sees as her only fate. Will sloughs off her, she suspends volition. In existing as a blueprint for the lecturer's rococo fantasies and sadomasochism she is benumbed. She is doubly dispossessed , both in her temporal as well as her psychic dislocation.
In the crepuscularity of this hideous gloaming she exists purely in the passive sense. She simply is, only exists as a receptacle. The lecturer preys on her self consciousness. He renders her penumbral by erasing her sense of herself. By demonstrating, through his putative tangible superiority he casts into shadow her tremulous self conceptions. By imperilling her precarious being he inveigles his solipsism. He is the mirror and the image both. He gives her a space for self annihilation and recomposes her in accordance with the dissonances of his own self absorption. She, too is his mirror. Without her he'd be blasted into non being.
She has been , despite his assiduous manipulations, undergoing her own metamorphoses. Mnemonics in her memory alert her inexhaustibly to a prelapsarian self. She is deeply enmeshed yet memory manages to irradiate, through intimations, aspects of her past self and its attendant plenitude. She sees, retrospectively, the tenebrous landscape her life has become and its aftermath.
So she slowly sets out to remap the territory of her consciousness. As the mnemonics piece together enough will be re remembered to challenge him. He, who by subsuming her showed himself amplified will, she resolves, see himself as he appears before her. That, she decides, will set the record straight.


Time flew by, while, moments
Where a certain stasis was anticipated
Were, with the counterpoint of destiny,
Demonstrably intractable which, nevertheless
Transformed ephemeral time , into a measureless,
Uneventful, unbroken continuity, irrefragable,
Enervating, terrifying.
What.moment. reveals.change.nonetheless.
Necessary. continuity. despite. protean. time
Mythified. Perpetuation. Unaltered. Destiny.
Metempsychosis. Consciousness. Durability.
Elasticity. Interstices. Destiny. Mutability.
Everything. Chimerical. Continuity.
Destiny changes each moment, each moment
changes life, Each life changes each moment,
Each moment, in each life, with destiny, is changed.
Incandescent time with effervescent bubbles of
Conviviality reflects on the efflorescence of the natural
World which changes and transforms and transmogrifies
Into multitudinous configurations and therefore each
Moment is eternity and eternity lies in each moment.


A luminous sliver of time
Is what i purloin from destiny
Hoping , that having embalmed it
I could crystallize its preciosity
The moment, by itself, betokens
Evanescence of what i can never
Capture, though this very nebulosity
Conceals, its own immortality
Though the moment eludes capture
It is retained fluidly by memory
Changing when tilted, turned upside down while
Stipples of authentication, nonetheless remain
Ultimately time past and time future
Coalesce in a present which rent,
Severed between the gaps of memory
And fact, conjoins valedictorily..

Wednesday, December 3, 2014


He sighs, pats his daughter's head, lulling her to sleep. He feels over protective, responsible and thoughtful. Her vulnerable, guileless face, sweet even in repose, tugs at his heart, like a squeeze, a constricting love which is both poignant and piquant.
It has been a growing closeness. Initially he was impersonal, viewing her as one of life's factual aspects. But when his heart contracts with love, when he feels an ache in his chest he realizes that not only is he being a father but has 'become' one.
His wife is poorly. He is gently solicitous. Over the anvil of her immovability he projects his solicitations, extracting the bitterness of her frustration and transforming it into a manageable unctuousness. He renders fluid the intransigence of her despair and by transmuting his self possession, renders her becalmed and tranquil.
The crib where his daughter lies is studded with sparkly sequins which glint in the moonlight. Sleeplessness has anchored him. Like a protective angel he watches over beneficently as the destinies of those under his jurisdiction unravel themselves. It is frightening, this sense of omnipotence but it is also ennobling to be a fulcrum in a whirling, tumultuous inner life.
He hears her moan in pain. Gently, so as not to disturb his daughter he enters the bedroom. She has vomited copiously in the bedsheets. He gently wets a towel and wipes her mouth. Her pregnant belly looms up at him, reproaching him for his apostasy. He is not ready for this. But resigned to the fatality that, to him, is inevitable, he marches ahead like a jaded soldier knowing the battle is going to be list but proceeding nonetheless.
His wife's primordial experience rubs off on him. He bombards her with questions about her experience, hoping that internalizing it would enable a better understanding.She is fractious, irritable, petulant. At this moment where he anticipates closeness he experiences detachment. Throughout their tranquil interlude there have been gentle expostulations, mutual urgings on, an unacknowledged treaty of circumspection. Now he seeks to plumb deeper into the recesses of propinquity but his wife is elsewhere, in another dimension of being. Their precarious closeness is capsized. Yet, in the midst of this unanchoring he feels a self containment that surprises him.
He is aware, through a residual awareness that a change has occurred. Years of irresponsibility slough off. A new realm of experience, with its attendant revelations and surprises beckon. He goes back to his daughter's crib. The sequins gleam iridescently in the penumbra and sometimes, flashing into his retina irradiate, to him, the durability that accompanies the transitoriness of things. A whole new world shimmers dazzlingly. He sighs and plunges into the abyss.

Tuesday, December 2, 2014


I feel rather worried. My eldest daughter, always compliant, pliable and a model of probity is now acting strangely. She is three and my analyst tells me that my pregnancy disconcerts her. She tells me, as a matter of course that sibling rivalry is natural and that i must accustom myself to tantrums and fireworks. As a way out she suggests a gentle but firm conversation, a steering the conversation to a mature direction which my daughter, it is purported, will respond agreeably to. I have my own misgivings but i pay my fee and leave.
It is not that i don't understand my daughter's ambivalence. I myself, due to the exiguity of circumstance, am constrained from partaking wholly in her care. So a nanny has replaced me. I notice my daughter's, whose name is Colette, striking a close bond with her nanny, both as inevitable outcome and as a way of rousing my jealousy. She is seeking to provoke me, to demand from me an unmitigated allegiance which i, had i not been pregnant, and as an independent feminist, would have balked at providing.
Sometimes her winsome ministrations charm me. Colette is many things but she is unquestioningly cute. I pamper her, hold her close, kiss her importunately and she crows with delight. 'I love you', 'you are mine' are rejoinders my analyst enjoins me to be sceptical about. But i'm exhausted. My varicose veins are swollen, i'm frequently nauseous and feel a tiredness that overrides any joy in life i may experience. Coupled with that Colette's own neurotic anxieties redouble my tiredness.
I have to confess that sometimes i feel an impulse to slap colette, to knock the stuffing out of her. Thankfully my analyst, with her sense of composure, calms me down. My own horrified realization that i want to beat up my three year old suffuses me with unutterable horror. That me, a post feminist ,is capable of such monstrosity gives me a version of myself i recoil from.
I don't think i have maternal ambivalence which always seemed overdone to me. But i am, despite everything, a woman weighed down bodily by a forthcoming tough pregnancy with a young daughter whose complex feelings i try to apprehend but am circumvented from doing by ill health. I have tried to have conversations with colette but they are unavailing.
My husband treats colette as a princess. She is rather coquettish with him. His effort to intercede on my behalf, with the aim of subsequently ameliorating my present turbulence with colette misfire. She is getting ever closer to her nanny and her demands from her father are becoming more cumbersome. I don't accuse colette of guile or calculation . I think she is responding in ways that guarentee her own precarious survival in a world whose complexity is indiscernible to her. All she has are the challenges her complex inner life throws at her. It pains me to register a putative deterioration that seems inevitable. Could i forestall it?
I must do something about it.

Monday, December 1, 2014


My mother lives alone. She is sixty six. On most days she manages reasonably well. I admire her courage because living alone, being lonely, without constant human presence enlivening and punctuating the caverns of silence, can encompass one in a depressive frame of mind. Often when my partner goes away on his business trips i experience the same loneliness, a similar undertow of despair.
The problem though is my mother's hypochondria. Everyday she calls me and talks for half an hour. The region of discomfort in her physiognomy is amorphous. Sometimes it's a headache, or indigestion, or blood pressure. Where she otherwise deals with solitude imperturably her health is really the paradigm where my mother's discomfiture with her loneliness shows itself. She's old and ageing and a certain physical discomfort is inevitable. These intermittences of queasy feelings in her otherwise courageous demeanour shows that even she ,with all her strength and will is capsized by absence of human contact, cast adrift, unanchored. And i shudder to think of how i ,in my old age, will cope with the onslaught of mortality.
So i temper my exasperation when mum calls. I am patient, proffering anodyne, palliating platitudes to shore her up, console her. I feel terrified thinking of her in pain, with no one to call to or ask for aid. At the same time this litany of plaintive deluges of discomfort anger me. Sometimes i think of her as an attention seeker, trying to demand from me, as an interlocutor, a sufficient block of time to alleviate her misery . It is the protracted nature of the commitment she solicits that renders my solicitations tinged with anger though intermingled with a piquant, frustrated love . And this combination, astringent, makes me aseptic.
My elder sister lives with her husband and two sons in ontario. Mum visits them every year for five months. It is miraculous that when with them her phone calls become fewer and when she does speak it is in softened tones, with a gentleness of concern which is how i have been accustomed to think of her through our childhood. Moments like these it seems as though the connecting tissue between her healthfulness and aloneness is human contact. All her grievances pall, her illnesses diminish in intensity and her hypochondria is obliterated. And then she comes back to live on her own and the whole process ,inexorably, is replicated.
Currently i'm enjoying a restful interlude. Mum is in ontario. Thinking through her admixture of depression and gregariousness i think of how nebulous yet how durable happiness is. That even when moments of low feeling drag us down they are always interlaced with a hopeful tomorrow. The ultimate nobility of a true sufferer, with an unrelieved stretch of despair is frightening to behold. But for what it's worth one chooses to find ways around one's loneliness until, at that fatal moment, all corporeal appendages are relinquished and we become part of a larger silence. But till then, we live on, as best as we can.


Mother had always seemed strangely neurotic. Strange to be using such a word to describe her, now that she is dead. But she had her quirks. Her unexpected generosity, her sulks, her withdrawals into herself and her spurts of effervescence seemed to indicate a paradigm where opposites, seeming incongruities blended and coexisted harmoniously, though sometimes eventfully.
It seems strange to be talking of mother thus but i don't judge her any more.This has nothing to do with the incontrovertible fact of her death but that the passage of time has softened the hard edges of my tumultuous relationship with her and has enabled me to understand the nature of her oscillations and why these putatively anomalous propensities coalesced in her, often surprising us, back then, with their intensity but never so much that we hated her.
I had a tough relationship with her. As a young girl, in thrall of my father who lavished utmost indulgence and overprotectiveness for me, i viewed her as an outsider. Her ineffectual remonstrances to my father such as 'you're spoiling her' or 'she's a big girl now, for god's sake', went largely unheeded. If my father was my prince and hero then so was i his cherished. I loved my father, i fancied a husband like him. In fact, even now, with my sleeping husband's becalmed countenance lies tranquil beside me it is not his face that i see but superimposed over it, that of my father's, immeasurably handsome, ardent and welcoming.
At sixteen my father raped me. All those romantic fantasies that centred around him collapsed precipitately. I had often thought about a corporeal commingling with my father but such forcefulness wrenched my being out of me, shattered me completely. To this day i am unable to balance the irreconcilable dichotomy between the father of my hopeless yearnings and this monster. If i still retain a wistful yearning for a husband i can never have it is because the image of my father, before he did this horrific deed, remains unaltered as the ultimate apotheosis.
I think mother discerned that something was amiss, even divined the actuality. She never spoke of it because i never confided in her. But she was a tower of strength. I can see now the stoicism with which she bore a difficult marriage, retained her uncompromising integrity and never managed to let me feel alone after that day. My father's ostensible expansiveness concealed a hedonistic concupiscence while my mother's gentleness held an inner, unwavering strength.
And now that she's died a few months back i traverse our kinetic terrain and find much in it that is satisfying. As far as my father is concerned i inhabit subterranean dreams of a fulfilment i know i can never have and how irrevocably he broke ,indeed sundered all faith i had in him.But fantasies, insufficient at best are a pallid recompense for a life, a pattern of being , a consciousness of plenitude i can never have. But at least they ensure the momentarily pleasurable oblivion of a night's sleep.

Friday, November 28, 2014


I dream, though a part of me knows that i do so. First there is the dream experience, imperceptibly transmuting to consciousness, followed by a residual conscious awareness of it. While dreaming i know that i dream and a part of my mind accepts, with full certainty, that it is a dream experience. But despite knowing that i dream, with full cognizance, i dream away and the immediacy of the dream as i experience it is not forestalled, attenuated or diffused in my experience. What is equally striking is that when i woke up and tried to recapture the dream all i had were fragments, mnemonics, intimations i couldn't reconstitute authentically. A simulacrum of the actual is all i have as recollection. I had thought, or rather hoped that my conscious awareness of having dreamt while dreaming may have lodged the experience in a more memorable format. But a part of my conscious mind, colluding with the conscious, seems to have obliterated ,in great measure, the original experience.
What i do recall is walking down a long corridor, a rather archetypal dream symbol. I remember wandering aimlessly, desultorily, with no destination in mind. Perhaps this peregrination is an indication of life itself, the journey aspect of life. Perhaps the purposelessness that constitutes my present experience is being, in a subliminal form, being articulated. Or perhaps i am seeking something that i neither know the form of nor the fact of my seeking it. The interpretations are numerous, the associations manifold and the interlinked memories interlocked, resisting interpretation.
The dream could either be wish fulfilment or overcompensation or denial. The mutations of memory and experience, recaptured and re-formed and reinterpreted in dreams, take on an unrecognizable form. They assume a form that is the concrete reconfiguration of disparate bits of our life, many of those bits unknowable. There, in the amorphous antechamber of memory and experience these kaleidoscopic slivers conjoin in a patten that is uncapturable. It is equally possible that the same experience reshuffled differently, permutates differently, in a completely different form. So a reversion of the dream experience into its constituents is not only difficult but inaccurate. More than that these constituents lodge in the unconscious mind.
Which does not, of course imply, that patterns are indiscernible. Commonalities are ineluctable but their ontology is unlocatable.All i have, despite my assiduous excoriation of the dream, is the incontrovertible reality of the dream itself. And it leaves much open to the imagination. In the desiccated, shriveled, remnant that i now am ,this dream, with its possibilities of reconstruction, revivifies and imposes meaning and structure, exacerbated by my search for inner truth, into my waking, conscious life. So the dream becomes reality.

Tuesday, November 25, 2014


Waking up from a dreamless slumber, unmediated even by routine disturbances,i had a thought. The thought i had was composed of a process which was thought. Something was being thought out or over. What i ruminated on was the phenomenon of anonymity.
Sometimes my relative insignificance irks me. When i see capacious, expansive, convivial people around me my inadequacy redoubles. I could, with sufficient assiduity, simulate these feelings. But more and more i realize that an impenetrable wall sheathes all social interlocutors, both from divining each other's being and from plumbing the darkness of their own mind.
What then, constitutes a conversation.? Is it a desultory interchange where surfaces are grazed but depths unexplored. Does the possibility of contretemps, glossed over, convey a subterranean layer whose exploration would be inimical to all involved. Conversations are as much about what is unsaid, or implied, or unconsciously felt and circumvented as much as the integument of conversation. Irreconcilable it seems, is the gap between what is said and what is felt. And untraversed is the realm where what is assimilated as felt feeling and what is negated.
Sometimes interlocutors dissimulate impeccably and assume a patina of irreproachability that belies their latent intentions. In the absence of, what to the other, is a conspicuous signifier alerting one to the palimpsest of discourse all one is, including me left with is our own powers of divination, putative at best, at worst hideously miscalculated.
I distrust my own instincts though i have found that they have often led me, through a circumlocutory process of ratiocination, to the inner reality of the other. I alternate, when i see my dire misgivings authenticated, between self aggrandizement and self loathing. Usually what i feel is an admixture of the two, each feeling dissociated yet conjoined.
So the anonymity i experience in conversations is both situational and experiential and they both merge imperceptibly. But nonetheless this thought i had on waking up , with its attendant discomfiture, returns me back to my own zone of anonymity with imperturable veracity.

Sunday, November 23, 2014


He promised me he'd take my call and respond. And i've already called him seventeen times. If my calls were in quick succession i might absolve him of this contretemps but i've spaced out my calls. A phone call every hour. The nature of exigencies alerts me to the fact that he might be caught up, be busy or preoccupied. But seventeen hours is a long time and i wonder if something calamitous has occurred. I hope he is safe.
Seventeen hours is enough time for anyone to check their phone. I don't expect a call back but at least a message, however truncated, to suggest that my presence has been registered. I am really unsure about how to interpret what has transpired. Though it is the absence of anything having transpired tangibly that worries me in the first place.
I've sent along a few messages. My frustration is mounting. I want to slam my phone against the wall, break this egregious, intractable excrescence into irreparable shards. But the termination of such an endeavour would offset the resolution to this conundrum i find myself in. I both need the phone yet deny its superseding my own sense of my well being. I long for a cessation of this predicament yet its protraction keeps me alive.
And i can't believe that i am of such negligible significance that he'd obliterate me from his daily life so precipitantly. He has not even told me where he has gone and in the absence of information i have only my convoluted misapprehensions at hand. I know my reasoning is bound to be faulty and importunate but knowing is insufficient. It does not alleviate anxiety and augments discomfiture.
I pick up the phone and dial his number. Then i put the phone down. I type out a text message but delete it before sending it. Then i hang up the phone in the middle of dialling his number. I think of calling up his workplace but even they might be unaware of his whereabouts. I think of calling up his wife, a desperate measure because it might bring about our relationship to an end. I long to alert her about our relationship while simultaneously suppressing that impulse. A disorientation has occurred. I begin desiring contradictory things at the same time. I both need him yet am repulsed by him, both want to end our relationship and hold on to him with intransigent certitude, desire, ineluctably, both his unhappiness and my own misery.
And ultimately despite this whole apparatus of worrying and self tormenting he will either call up or not call. I guess i'll just have to deal with it.

Friday, November 21, 2014


I felt them both look at me. Him, scruffy, with a frayed shirt and his mate, with his shirt hanging loose, a cigarette dangling from his lips even though smoking was prohibited in the metro. Both of them conversed languidly, exuding an air of indolence and emanating waves of casualness like the exhalation of smoke from the second one's cigarette.
When they desultorily interchanged i breathed a sigh of relief but such relief was momentary and short lived. Their glances, frequently directed at me, suffused me with unutterable terror. They seemed to be thugs who would, at any moment, as soon as i disembarked rob me of all the cash i had and leave me beaten up and senseless, by the roadside. And they are glancing at me rather more frequently and i sense, in their dark, smouldering eyes, a calculation and guile that is unendurable to witness.
My pupils dilate, my heart beats fast. I feel chasms opening up beneath me, vertiginous. My knees are weak and wobbly. At any moment i might collapse and fall apart, sagging down maladroitly as my knees give way beneath me. I feel my teeth beginning to chatter. My tongue pushes out and retracts and i feel, uneasily that my teeth are shaking, that all my teeth will crumble into powdery bits. I am shivering uncontrollably. And strangely it strikes me that the more they witness my discomfiture the more resolute their decision to waylay me and attack me.
So i try to establish a modicum of control. I hold my nerve, try to breathe in deeply and convey an impression of imperturability. But even when my glance strays away from them i feel their malevolent gaze locked into me, boring into my haplessness with their calculating, penetrating resolve. Until it seems that not looking and looking merge into one wherein looking is equivalent to not looking given that my aegis of terror subsumes me and not looking coterminous with looking because their spectral presences insist on being acknowledged.
The metro , as a entity, crowds in on me. My senses expand, incorporating the immensity of the entire metro, the people who inhabit it and the two who haunt me. This entire tableau, inrushes into my consciousness with disembodied forcefulness until my mind expands expands expands and then bursts, as my growing terror reaches its peak. Everything atrophies around me, a conglomeration of disjointed images flash before me. I feel faint and nauseous and claustrophobic.
As soon as the doors open i lurch out blindly, five stations before mine and make a dash homewards.

Wednesday, November 19, 2014


Upon seeing these words on his facebook page i was heartbroken. Having secretly nurtured hopes for a realization of our putative bond, given the caprices of time, had seemed a possibility that could be fulfilled. Now the above mentioned post dashed my hopes to the ground.
I scoured her profile, with whom he was now enmeshed, with great trepidation. While her unremarkable features palliated my misery somewhat the glaring fact of her being a part of his life consumed me with bitter jealousy. I realized that i was undermining her factuality by imbuing her with grotesque associations. At any moment reality , which was in any case established by the post, might discomfit me further. By making of her a funnel through which i filtered out my anger i felt, momentarily, great self satisfaction. But it was illusory.
The chat space on my right hand side, studded with greenish dots, betokens a space where i can pour forth my predicament to sympathetic friends. The post option, from which i will naturally exclude him further intensifies the desire for expression . But time has demonstrated that such avowals, couched as disavowals, concealed under a patina of guilelessness actually evince a hunger for attention that is insatiable. And the more empathy is proffered the hungrier will my desire for self exoneration be. Ultimately all i'll end up with is an indiscriminate show of my pitifulness while the world will move on.
Wan't such a similar process the ground of my disenchantment? We had exchanged pleasantries initially followed by, at least from me, an honest account of one's life. I believed him,believed in the fortuitousness of our intersection to bring about the desired apotheosis and i was proved wrong.
Was my expectation of our togetherness precipitate? Or downright unrealistic? I must have projected, imagining him as enthralled by me as i was with him. And in all honesty he did demonstrate verbally, on many occasions, the authenticity of his regard. Were i face to face with him i might perhaps divine the truth beneath his self proclamations. But who knows, even in real life, he may have dissembled impeccably. The hope of a good outcome renders the prospect of scepticism precarious. It crystallizes self doubt and  blunts judgement.
Ultimately all i am left with is the spectre of my naivete, my foolish, ingenuous building up of a hope that was predestined to be foiled. I could either brush off this incongruous episode as a learning curve or be steeped in misery for the near foreseeable future. All i know is that, in some imperceptible way my idea of myself has undergone a metamorphosis.

Tuesday, November 18, 2014


The hall of mirror ripples
My reflections manifold
Multitudinous refractions
Across space and time testify
To the fluid center of my being
And the evanescence of time
Time present dissolves into time past
Where, conjoined, they anticipate
A future which, tempered by both
Peregrinating the interstices of
The has been and the can be
Becomes a congealed should be.
Metamorphoses of consciousness
Traverse metempsychosis realms
Through which, interweaved temporalities
Siphoning off contingent intimations
Amalgamate, the penumbral incertitude
With incandescent plenitude
The hall of mirrors is merely,
A hall of mirrors, with its
Dotted spots slotted, their
Impersonal causality but what
Has altered, dramatically
Is how i now see myself and life.


When the narcissist, which is how i refer to the man who shattered me, left behind him, as an indelible imprint, the deep hurt he gave me, i collapsed. Left with nothing, not even a shred of self esteem, i foundered for months, oscillating between a desparate desire for a resumption of my tortuous predicament, however dire and the need for restitution, for vengeance. But feelings like this, unsustained by the principle of unmitigated realism, are going to collapse into nothingness. Where they lodged, as inalienable fantasies, which diminished in intensity with time.
While i was with him i was in a non negotiable, tenebrous space of emptiness. It seemed as though by suspending disbelief, or rather suspending being i could inhabit the tangled skein of our togetherness. I abdicated not only my self containment but my intuition. And it cost me dearly.
We lived in a surreal atmosphere of irreality where we were, to each other, spectral apparitions who fulfilled a function of furthering the narrative of life . To him, i realize retrospectively, i was expendable,dismissable. He relinquished his hold of me when my slumbering defiance, anesthetized by complicity, exacerbated by my idea of love, surfaced. I represented to him a reality of himself that he was unwilling to accept. I was ,in the mirror of his consciousness, a reflection turned inside out, revealing to him, not his habitually recurrent placid self complacence but a disfigured, grotesque factuality, the exactitude of which he willingly and precipitately suppressed and repressed, fearful that its terrifying intimations might reveal the obverse of narcissism, i.e utter nihilism of non being.
Sometimes i think to myself as to whether his narcissism was his sole defence. I do not intend to absolve or exonerate him of the hurt he gave me but the thought does arise as to whether he need this carapace of solipsism to assert himself in an existence where the only other possibility ,to him, was self annihilation. Was he entrapped by his psychopathy and there was no way out. The discomfiture i almost inflicted on him, which he adroitly and seamlessly circumvented, might have been a breaking point, a point of breaking through. Conversely it might have brought out the worse in him as immanent propensities, latent, as yet unactualized, sparked off into conflagaration through provocation.
But ruminations such as these are unprofitable. As i sit here lonesome, the chequered whorls on the carpet form agreeable patterns on my retina, the teacup with its exhalation of steamy warmth consoles me, the iridescent indentations of a new love i'm currently nursing in my mind suffuse me with a warmth that dapples and irradiates my heart. I need circumspection and observance to pragmatism to proceed hereon. But with sufficient perspicuity, i think i can manage.