Monday, January 20, 2014


We, though singular, are in many ways indistinguishable. Hence the narrative voice we proffer begins with 'we'. It doesn't mean that we are essentially undifferentiated. For the purposes of expediency as also considering the sameness of our feelings for cinderella and the exiguity circumstances force us into our narrative takes the form it does. But form isn't merely an encapsulation, it is a spillage too. We are sure that the sheathe we contain our narrative in will inevitably unravel in unguessed directions. Our intense self consciousness renders it ineluctable. For whatever it's worth, here it is.

We are forced into complicity with our mother. We visit on cinderella the utmost tortures and discomfiting tasks. Firstly our mother would consider any other feeling inadmissible. And secondly a simulacrum of acquiescence gives us space for our furtive colloquies. As we are mirror images of each other our love for each other is an extension of our self love. But she, who is the 'other' gives us opportunities for absorbing her beauty and nursing fantasies whose acknowledgement would cosign us, should our mother even suspect knowledge of it, into oblivion. Oh, the softness of her lips, the unsullied whiteness of her teeth, her burgeoning womanhood even when dressed in rags and the detritus of our discards is irresistibly enticing. We throb with unfulfilled longings and atrophy our oleaginous cores with drying remnants of unconsummation. But our minds nurse illicit thoughts of commingling. We are so grateful that we have each other to validate our psychic blueprints.

That cinderella though, wears her victimhood with a woebegone yet becoming stoicism. Her pliancy annoys us incredibly. She sees our visitations of meanness but can she she not discern the subterranean eroticism in our eyes as they smoulder in appreciation of her voluptuousness. Her imperviousness to our nascent desires is insulting. Her sense of being a plaything redoubles her self containment. She radiates arabesques of luminosity which we want to make into a threesome mosaic. Yet the slivers she sloughs off collapse into her own haloed incandescence making her doubly desirable.

We go to the ball but we hate it. The bloody prince thinks through his dick. To him our gentle,womanly ministrations on feminine bodies is repulsive. We recognize cinderella dancing with him but we keep it to ourselves. Her utter gorgeousness and ravishing beauty is so ennobling to watch yet we susurrate with immeasurable jealousy for the prince who will, we know, carry her off in his arms. We know the inexorability of fate but still we entertain hopes for our own apotheosis.

Shit, the shoe has fit, she is gone. Mum's rage is unconstrained and uncontainable. That phallic nightmare will impregnate her and turn her into a torpid, slovenly queen. We doubt if she'll live happily ever after and frankly we don't care. The object of our desire has become a subject of unactualized propinquity. We are back to proximity with our mirrors. But at least we have each other.

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