Friday, June 13, 2014


Often discussions around self consciousness are unprofitable because a self conscious of itself varies from a self conscious of it's self. And i am very grateful that you peruse my being with such intent scrutiny. A certain austerity has always determined me. Do not mistake austerity for frugality for i am generous, or at least sufficiently so, in spirit and in my charitableness. Nor do i believe in the dubious virtue of self abnegation. Why this self is all we have so we must nourish it, nurture it, cherish it. Through such assiduous ministrations to myself i endeavor to maintain a certain equilibrium.

When your eyes fall on me appreciatively i see their gleam of joy . They sort of light up. A luminosity undulates from your gaze in waves of iridescence and irradiates my own heart. I sense, though it may be  projection, the lift of your heart, the inward exultation your beaming countenance manifested in a flush of pleasure, with the veined lines mottled and striated with flushed patches. There is a discernible furtiveness in your gaze and i think an erotic undercurrent constitutes it. I see, with my own rather reticent counter gaze , a bulge in your pants, suggestive of a tumescence. Is this engorgement unprecedented for you, i surmise, given its importunate arousal and indiscriminate protruberation. Is it the sight of me that is the cause of excitation or an association i have sparked, a memory the presence of my being in your consciousness has precipitated. I would like to believe, given my healthy self regard, that my physiology has been a point of arousal. Yet i am humble enough not  to attribute unequivocally any such unperceptive self importance to myself. I am reasonably aware of both my charms and my off putting fastidiousness.

I see your self consciousness through my self consciousness. I am rendered self conscious through the self consciousness of your gaze. You reflect me by (re) flecting me. The  putative inviolability i claim i possess, the singularity i stake my hold on, attenuates when you look at me. My indeterminate being reverts to its fragments, i am cleft into multifariousness. And then, through accretion i reassemble a new me, a me reconfigured under the aegis of your gaze. At times it seems that your gaze and my answering responsiveness melt into each other. It is almost as if in sundering my being you grant me becoming while my disaggregation of you reconstitutes you anew. You know you are a conduit, unimpassive yet impersonal through which i funnel out composed differently.

Our respective conglomerations intermingle through our interweaving. A part of me is ingested by you and it is a part of me i , through the mediation of your perspectivation, reabsorb. Similarly a remnant of your gaze alters and shifts my inner contours so that unconsciously i become a blueprint of what you envisage. Are the parts we interchange our souls or are they the infinitesimal but daily additions the self accumulates. Whatever one may call it this resultant ramification incandesces me till you turn your gaze away and drive off in your car and i smilingly, self consciously, resume my gardening. 

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