Tuesday, November 18, 2014


When the narcissist, which is how i refer to the man who shattered me, left behind him, as an indelible imprint, the deep hurt he gave me, i collapsed. Left with nothing, not even a shred of self esteem, i foundered for months, oscillating between a desparate desire for a resumption of my tortuous predicament, however dire and the need for restitution, for vengeance. But feelings like this, unsustained by the principle of unmitigated realism, are going to collapse into nothingness. Where they lodged, as inalienable fantasies, which diminished in intensity with time.
While i was with him i was in a non negotiable, tenebrous space of emptiness. It seemed as though by suspending disbelief, or rather suspending being i could inhabit the tangled skein of our togetherness. I abdicated not only my self containment but my intuition. And it cost me dearly.
We lived in a surreal atmosphere of irreality where we were, to each other, spectral apparitions who fulfilled a function of furthering the narrative of life . To him, i realize retrospectively, i was expendable,dismissable. He relinquished his hold of me when my slumbering defiance, anesthetized by complicity, exacerbated by my idea of love, surfaced. I represented to him a reality of himself that he was unwilling to accept. I was ,in the mirror of his consciousness, a reflection turned inside out, revealing to him, not his habitually recurrent placid self complacence but a disfigured, grotesque factuality, the exactitude of which he willingly and precipitately suppressed and repressed, fearful that its terrifying intimations might reveal the obverse of narcissism, i.e utter nihilism of non being.
Sometimes i think to myself as to whether his narcissism was his sole defence. I do not intend to absolve or exonerate him of the hurt he gave me but the thought does arise as to whether he need this carapace of solipsism to assert himself in an existence where the only other possibility ,to him, was self annihilation. Was he entrapped by his psychopathy and there was no way out. The discomfiture i almost inflicted on him, which he adroitly and seamlessly circumvented, might have been a breaking point, a point of breaking through. Conversely it might have brought out the worse in him as immanent propensities, latent, as yet unactualized, sparked off into conflagaration through provocation.
But ruminations such as these are unprofitable. As i sit here lonesome, the chequered whorls on the carpet form agreeable patterns on my retina, the teacup with its exhalation of steamy warmth consoles me, the iridescent indentations of a new love i'm currently nursing in my mind suffuse me with a warmth that dapples and irradiates my heart. I need circumspection and observance to pragmatism to proceed hereon. But with sufficient perspicuity, i think i can manage.

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