Monday, July 14, 2014


I flattened my creased pyjamas and sat down with my laptop atop the stool, looking at his profile picture yet again. And i saw, what i had already seen countless times, but felt impelled to again. I saw the stubble with the rasp of beard on it, i saw the handsome face, the thatch of brown hair and the ceaselessly proclaiming yet scarcely committing sensibility. And i realized, through retrospectively i should have known better, given the fact that i had courted such disappointments earlier, that i was replicating patterns of behavior from my past that were nothing short of pathological.

In the morning i wake up. I sip a glass of cold milk with crumbling biscuits. Such, unfortunately, is my oblation to a morning whose fatalistic undulations, even in my contemplation of them, seem enervating and bone chilling. But i feel a sense of urgency. It is not an altogether unanticipated urgency because at eldritch moments of my life , self realization has crept in but i have always indefatigably repressed it for fear of acknowledging my own dark monstrosities. When such unbidden moments do arrive i rush to the supermarket and buy diet coke, subsuming any incorporation of mortification that may have been inveigled in the hours of unsolicited introspection.

Today the sight of his profile picture arouses the usual commingling of yearning and disgust. At my age i should know better but this grovelling, meretricious seeking for attention is deeply disgusting. The overtures, insidious in hindsight, seem repulsive as though each act, each word, each sliver of my consciousness exists in relation to my dovetailing with his masochistic approbation. Is it love or ratification that makes me step out of myself, suspend any modicum of sense i possess and surrender vulnerably before the other ? Am i not, in a sense, trying to buy his love and if the spontaneous feeling of love in him is not forthcoming then the lacuna must be in me, i must be an unworthy subject to love.

Don't get me wrong, i am not entirely unaware of his monumental selfishness but i do realize that my failure to irradiate even a spark or conflagaration in his breast is my failure, my loss. But i choose not to let this loss render me suicidal as past rejections have. If there is one thing i have learnt from past failures it is durability. It breaks my heart but it doesn't break me. I am no longer in touch with my therapist nor do her anodyne platitudes any powers of restitution for the devastation my own stupidity has wrought in me. I will eschew melodrama and move on.

I go to his profile one last time and click block thereby obliterating the compendium of an entire conglomeration of complexities, both past and future, from my life. Sometimes i really think i am neurotic.

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