Tuesday, August 5, 2014


He had an inveterate habit, when he murmured endearments to present our countenances before the mirror. He liked, he often told me, for me to discern the sincerity of his regard. And indeed his probity was undeniable given the warmth that emanated from him, the abundance of love that overflowed. As his eyes lit up, brimming with passion my own rims would be teared. The mirror revealed to us our unfledged integuments and i ,in a cocoon of self regard, susurrated with primeval lust.
Subsequently,with the passage of time i started doubting his regard. He didn't show by any gesture that his love for me had abated but for me, the kernel of doubt grew stronger, more palpable. And i think it was the mirror which crystallized my suspicions.
It was an oval mirror, gilt edged. It was rimmed with an iridescent silvery sheen. Throughout our avowals and protestations of authenticity it was impassive, a noncommittal witness of our mutual solipsism. And i use the word solipsism very carefully because when i say that his regard was unambivalent it was because i wanted to believe,i my heart of hearts, that it was so. So i superimposed my own aegis on his being, interpreting it the way i wanted to. He projected to, it was impossible not to. And for him it was an illusion redoubled as both his self conception and my unreflecting reflection of it back to him contributed to buttress him.
So i think it was more a growing disenchantment with the illusion the mirror was spawning that got to me. I wanted to smash his own mirror, penetrate the honest core of his being. But i was terrified too, terrified that such knowledge may be inimical for my own mental health. Besides the comfort of an illusion is that it keeps reality at bay,through a willed negation. The comfort of such illusoriness, given my own disillusion, atrophied  the faith i had in him, or rather myself. Because, really, what i loved was a simulacrum, a product of my own fancy. Where was his being, in all this? Where indeed, was my being?
However i kept up appearances. Our mutual regard/disregard persisted awhile . I was unwilling to to be forced to relinquish my illusions about him. Besides i wanted to spare him any hint of my growing skepticism. So we performed, i, consciously and him, in a realm of consciousness in the interstice between the conscious and the unconscious.
The mirror reflects what it does, faultlessly, faithfully. On its silvered edges repose our unconscious blueprints. But we preserve our togetherness by scratching our surfaces but leaving our depths unplumbed. That's how i prefer it, anyway.

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