Friday, July 11, 2014


Yesterday i met my therapist for the last time. We were wrapping up a three year intense relationship and all the paraphernalia that constituted our intersection. I felt rather relieved because being independent by nature the prospect of therapy as a crutch had discomfited me, attuning me to my vulnerabilities and weaknesses. Now that the time to move on had come i felt enlivened, reprieved and frankly desirous of moving on.

So today i sit in my dark flat. And i wonder whether the articulation of experience occurs after the experience is experienced. Whether it is possible that i narrate and experience at the same time. In inner time such a feat would be possible but with a linear structure such incongruities are left unavoidably unaddressed.
I always feel that the intensity of an experience, its thereness is contingent on the intensity with which that experience is felt at that particular time. A slight in childhood, passed over without being engaged with can suffuse with mortification when recollected. So then is what happens when true or how what happens when impacts us which is. Ultimately it is the depth of feeling the experience is imbued with that makes it come alive, otherwise empty clods of causality stud our temporal existence, unrevealing and insoluble.

Going back to the therapist who was not, in retrospect, altogether unintelligent, did help me. I was confused and bewildered, the misshapen lump of my life before me. I sought answers or more accurately a reason to exist, to be. She helped me find that through the therapeutic process. I never felt attracted to her, she was too old for that ,old that is, in her spirit of a worldly wisdom that was alternately enervating and inspiring. But i did become infantilized in her presence, seeking her approval and ratification, sometimes dissembling and camouflaging experience to correspond to the tenors of her cognitive consciousness. I think she saw through my performances but judging by the secretive, sly smile such performances elicited i was unsurprised to observe that she was secretly flattered.

The impossible feat i alluded to earlier, that of writing and experiencing simultaneously, is now being actualized. I can feel prickles of perturbation, but prepossessing perturbations, inundate my being. As the words pour forth, the heartbeat quickens, associations proliferate. In my writing i pour my being, rendering this inchoate mesh plausible through the written word. But is what i write reshaping what i already experienced retroactively and am regurgitating or do i write as i feel ,what i feel, how i feel. Are there layers of consciousness which experience traverses and a conscious knowledge is only a substratum of a larger knowing. But this discerning, perceiving consciousness, with its limited time space coordinates is all i have so i will myself into believing, with the full awareness of the provisionality of the truth i refer to, the inescapable commingling to experience and expression.

In a way this ceaseless interplay replicates the therapist's couch. A part of me knows what it's doing, a part which  without knowing, acts out what i'm thinking and there remains, even in my most assiduous veracious moments, stipples of untruth or an undiscerned greater truth. So i speak ,so i write.

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