We'e met a few times. Our intersections have been nebulous, our interchanges tremulous. I find that, even in my wildest imaginings, love seemed inconceivable. Habitual self doubt rendered its possibility inadmissible. What i felt earlier, and with great intensity, was an unfocused ,diffuse sexual energy, attenuated in fantasies of primordial commingling that always left me feeling guilty and panic stricken. My fantasy life, more capacious and sexualized than my real life, betokened, with its chaotic freneticism, instances of primal intimations of apotheosis i couldn't conceptually transmute to real life.
In a way though i love him it feels indeterminate. Part of the reason for this uncertainty is my lack of knowledge about him. As far as contingent details of his life go i have only hazy mnemonics. I could, if i desired, seek information circuitously, by asking around but such sleight of hand is something i eschew on principle. Nor will i, through prestidigitation, divine his being. I'm only human and the process of familiarity takes time. If i figured him out would i still love him? Were he to reveal unprepossessing dimensions of his being would my regard still be unambivalently unwavering? Would not my aegis subtly but surely metamorphose.
So who he is what i have built him up as. His reality corresponds to the signifiers i dapple his personality with. Looking and loving him is like looking at and loving ideal aspects of myself, churned from unconscious processes of veneration and devaluation. The mirror, impassively, may tell its own story but i impose my own perspectivation on it. Constructions are unavoidable, as are misapprehensions. But this camouflage, of which i'm consciously cognizant does not discomfit me or distress my unduly. I cherish the process of unraveling which is tantamount, in my mind, to discovery. Meanwhile i invent him and isn't invention, somewhere, a precondition for discovery.
Needless to say i entertain the gravest doubts about his perception of me.Our conversations, though intermittent, have been sanguine and their manifestations salutary. By concealing this poignant feeling i have for him which stipples me with prismatically iridescent shafts of luminosity, i am left with conjecture. Would an avowal of my regard detonate our precarious propinquity? Or will this emotion, subterraneously repressed, remain unconsummated and unresolved? I am yet to make up my mind.
So i flit between this oscillating paradigm of wanting to demonstrate and fearing it. If i were to avow at least the outcome would be certain, however precipitate my avowal would be. But not admitting would leave the possibilities infinite where i could carve out my own blueprints of the actual and the realizable. But such speculations, preponderant through a willed illusion, would dissolve when unmitigated reality inveigles its incontrovertible significations and hence it is incumbent on me that i take up a course of action.
Meanwhile the process of alternating heartfelt experience of love and its putative negation, with an incipient heartbreak as its inevitable accompaniment, suffuses me with delicious, vertiginous piquancy and incandescence.