Thursday, May 15, 2014

INTERIORITY AND THE MIRROR.

I am introspective, pathologically so . I like to believe i know my unconscious. I have endeavored, at many points in my life, to deconstruct the lineaments of my being , so much so that i have discovered, much to my chagrin, aspects of being of whose existence i was hitherto unaware. Yet off late my exegetical excoriation has deserted me. I find myself increasingly unable to delve deep. And i think it stems from the fact that there is some repression involved, some deeper concealment of me from myself that i need to plumb.

Today i did an interesting thing. I stood in front of the mirror hoping to externalize myself and subsequently introject the significations reflected back to me. I saw my reflection, i saw myself, inescapably conjoined yet incontrovertibly split. Fragmentation cascaded from every runnel in my mind. I couldn't hep noticing that what i saw was not a bleached simulacrum of a reflection but an alien being, an extension of me, indivisible yet with a palpable agency of its own. By extrojecting myself i had rendered separate a part of me unbeknownst to myself. Yet, through this retrospective knowledge a part of my essential being was thoroughly sullied and impugned.

I know i see a reflection of myself. I know it is my own being, cleft through the mediation of the mirror in my consciousness. But the part of me that is me feels tenuous and the part of me which the mirror reflects seems anterior, hearkening back to a realm of consciousness that is unfathomable, untraversable. The hints and feelers my reflection throws at me suffuse me with inadequacy. Knowledge advances, self awareness retracts and the singularity of my becoming ebbs and flows. The reflection's otherness others me from myself because my appraising, discerning consciousness seems to have become apocryphal too.

What, then, am i promulgating? That i have no telos or does the mirror have no reality? The veraciousness of seemingly disparate phenomena surely lies in between. What the mirror revealed today, in parenthesis was how unknowable i was to myself, was to be to myself. Any factuality, arrived at with any modicum of exactitude, would, of necessity, be dubious and inauthentic. I felt relieved and reprieved yet discomfited and unnerved. The sole conclusion of my unceasing ruminations, incisive  peregrinations into myself was that i could never know myself in entirety. The reality of indeterminacy and irresolution of even the most sacred and inviolable fulcrum of being, my own self, required a relinquishment of self regard and augmentation of a jouissance i could not access but experience. This made a metaphysician out of me. 

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