Sunday, January 19, 2014


It is perhaps a trick of fate that slivers of passion radiated for me with both of them. She, who brought my being into being and he who made me what i became. In both instances a process of birth which is actually a rebirth was established. Being comfortable in inhabiting my integument i have relinquished the possibility of choosing though a choice must inevitably be made. If i could amalgamate the irreconcilable choices that assail me, if i could seek a convergence of both worlds i inhabit i could, perhaps incandesce my becoming and irradiate the filaments of my burgeoning womanhood with transcendence. But a loophole in history, or perhaps a lacuna in the metaphysical disallows such apotheosis.

She, to whose intervention i owe my being gave me life, through the mediation of her luscious garden of delights. My earliest recollections are of her gnarled face bending over me with fierce possessiveness and such powerful love drew me in. She seemed timeless, though age had wrinkled her. Yet i trace the lineaments of her face like a cartographer. Her sharp, pointed molars dig seductive indentations on my pliant lips and when she touches my core she brings forth such a fusillade of inexpressible joy that i feel constellations of color explode before me in coruscating refractions. Though the years mark her her vitality is indomitable. She is my anterior, the cave, the amniotic womb in whose flames of flickering shadows and saline warmth i lie enclosed, encased, entombed in the precarious yet durable skin of my own being.

He made me come to be. He dredged me from the tenebrous cave where i felt secure and wrenched me to the real world. He demonstrated the possibility of a love i had hitherto been unaware of. He wrested me from the penumbra of sameness to the iridescence of variegation. Unlike her, his youthfulness, ardor and suppleness draws me in irresistibly. If she, through her preternatural ministrations, gave birth to me then he, with his scrolled heraldry made me who i am. He suffuses me with indescribable passion. His arms encircle my rounded curves with utmost gentleness. I savor the ambrosia his lips expend. When his fingers traverse the runnel of my spine i susurrate and throb with jouissance. He gives me, in the state of innocence i inhabited, the possibility of knowledge. If she is my apple, he is my serpent.

I don't however, seek a homogeneous cleaving of thesis and antithesis. Nor do i seek an undifferentiated soldering. I want to partake both of prelapsarian ingenuousness and postlapsarian carnality. I don't want my being and becoming cleft. I would like my telos to be unalterably durable yet i would like to keep the possibility of fluidity as well. Circumstances though and the inveterate propensity of my story towards mythopoeia make choice ineluctable, indeed incontrovertible. The two worlds i so thrillingly occupy will intersect and ricochet. But while things continue as they do i intend to savor the crenellations of both experiences and dapple my experienced experience with luminous polymorphousness. I'd prefer not to think about what happens next. What will come, will come.

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