Waking up from a dreamless slumber, unmediated even by routine disturbances,i had a thought. The thought i had was composed of a process which was thought. Something was being thought out or over. What i ruminated on was the phenomenon of anonymity.
Sometimes my relative insignificance irks me. When i see capacious, expansive, convivial people around me my inadequacy redoubles. I could, with sufficient assiduity, simulate these feelings. But more and more i realize that an impenetrable wall sheathes all social interlocutors, both from divining each other's being and from plumbing the darkness of their own mind.
What then, constitutes a conversation.? Is it a desultory interchange where surfaces are grazed but depths unexplored. Does the possibility of contretemps, glossed over, convey a subterranean layer whose exploration would be inimical to all involved. Conversations are as much about what is unsaid, or implied, or unconsciously felt and circumvented as much as the integument of conversation. Irreconcilable it seems, is the gap between what is said and what is felt. And untraversed is the realm where what is assimilated as felt feeling and what is negated.
Sometimes interlocutors dissimulate impeccably and assume a patina of irreproachability that belies their latent intentions. In the absence of, what to the other, is a conspicuous signifier alerting one to the palimpsest of discourse all one is, including me left with is our own powers of divination, putative at best, at worst hideously miscalculated.
I distrust my own instincts though i have found that they have often led me, through a circumlocutory process of ratiocination, to the inner reality of the other. I alternate, when i see my dire misgivings authenticated, between self aggrandizement and self loathing. Usually what i feel is an admixture of the two, each feeling dissociated yet conjoined.
So the anonymity i experience in conversations is both situational and experiential and they both merge imperceptibly. But nonetheless this thought i had on waking up , with its attendant discomfiture, returns me back to my own zone of anonymity with imperturable veracity.