Saturday, May 17, 2014


A while back i rid myself of his clutches. He, repository of tales of love, receptacle of my neurosis, entrapped me into a vision of myself i subsequently found hard to relinquish. There was something impetuous about the way in which he was simultaneously rebarbative and cloying. It took me quite some time to detach myself and impersonally come to terms with the conundrums and unclassifiability of his complexity. He was an all encompassing pool in whose depths i gazed enraptured, falling in love with the blueprints he proffered , rendering inadmissible even to myself the possibility that what i envisaged as freedom was a fetter, a catacomb entombing me with its suffocating depths.

What attracted me to him was his intractability, his way of presenting an anomalous surface which drew attention to its putative specialness. The demonstration of erudition compounded my sickly cleaving. . He explicated on phenomena at great length and with immense depth yet seemed disconnected from the knowledge he evinced. He seemed aware of the interstices of complexities in causality yet incapable of any kind of self awareness. Ontologically he appeared whole yet the cracks began to show when he projected his inadequacies on to me. I became a vessel for him, a conduit , to funnel his self loathing out, albeit indirectly, through misappropriation and extrojection and reaffirm a tremulous wholeness which was, in actuality, a tenuous egotism, buttressed by prevarication and confounded by my contradictory  expostulations.

It seemed irresolvable, yet incontrovertible that such ignorance of the self could coexist with outward knowledge. A simulacrum of veracity could only have proven chimerical because his behavior and its incongruities marked out the irreconcilability between outer and inner. By the time the knowledge of his perversion became conscious, a knowledge i possessed right from the start but repressed and eschewed things were too far gone. I was unhealthily dependent. He got under my skin. The entire apparatus, the ineluctable paraphernalia of my being was contingent on the workability of our intersection. There were moments where i retracted but would  invariably conjoin again with great self loathing because it was a predicament i was immured in both with and against my consciousness of the incommensurability between illusion and reality.

What called the whole thing off was inadvertently myself. An accidental comment, which he took to be a criticism of him led him into a fusillade of vituperation that led to an irreparable, unbridgeable breach. It took me some time to reassemble, dependent as my self esteem had been on him, but eventually i managed it. Our future intersections were evanescent, wary because we'd both smashed the mirrors of our relationship leaving nothing but splintered shards and emptiness.

The conclusion i drew was the inevitability of the truth of our bodies and the significations they provide on things which our mind catches on to much later. As also the unavoidability of the misgivings the unconscious promulgates. It was sheer obduracy that drew us to each other, the intransigence of seeing the reflection as  the truth. It was necessary for truth to reflexively adumbrate an inherent self authenticity that broke our mutual self deception. That a nebulous but possible future beckons, with the actualization of apotheosis, scaffolds and irradiates.

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