Thursday, May 8, 2014


When i knew him back then, he exuded enigma. He evinced loquacity, erudition. He was like a mirror in that he reflected himself in my aegis as a becoming i wished to solder to. His knowledge of things was fascinating to witness. One day he rattled of a unceasing discourse on psychoanalysis that took my breath away. I regressed into pliancy, unquestioned submission and capitulation.

Frequent incursions on my flesh reminded me of his masochism yet encased in the aureole of self abnegation i overlooked the forebodings his visitations precipitated. In the penumbra of introspection self awareness would redouble my self loathing because knowing consciously the shame of my predicament coexisted with my inability to alleviate my suffering.

But it is not so much the indeterminate though fortuitous intersection of forceful flesh on passive self that interests me. What fascinates me is his cast of character. That he could demonstrate great knowledge about the world yet retain blissful self unawareness i had discerned early on. What i marveled at was the intensity of his self deception and the conniving intelligence that underlay it. It wasn't simply unambiguous projection which would have rendered his psychological anomalies conspicuous. It was, rather, a circuitous way of putatively alluding, skillfully circumventing and unconscionably repudiating that shocked me. As if the incongruity was simultaneously ruminated on and abrogated as superfluous and extraneous.

I said earlier that he was a mirror. He was a master connoisseur, who, through dubious sleight of hand, proliferated shimmering reflections of becoming that robbed me of any contingent being i may have possessed. He proffered thrilling apotheosis but a transcendence underpinned by grotesquerie and compounded of self deception. He was like a tenebrous cave where i regressed into my primordial constituents.

I understood him quite competently subsequently. The appellation NPD was particularly befitting. Yet even today the nebulosity of his essence remains unknowable. Does he have an essence. In the mosaic of my self constitution which involved a remingling with my being, he occupies an arabesque at once irreal and supra real. And that remains , to this day, my impression.

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