Amid the multitude of instants where i thought i knew him i was foiled. My assiduous suppositions collapsed. It wasn't so much that he contravened my exegesis. It was more that he was so unambiguously himself that the patina i sought to illumine him with remained a nebulous silhouette. And because it was about me its failure was inevitable.
Why, i often ask myself was such a gloss of romanticism necessitated? Or perhaps romanticism isn't wholly accurate. I sought to demystify him by romanticizing him. By de idealizing him i sought to render my misgivings veracious. For misgivings they certainly were, with their overtones of disillusion and lack of faith. I tried hard to believe in him though being fully aware that all i was really doing was just trying hard. But not enough. A residual, subterranean intuition of his faithlessness invariably coloured my subsequent mythopoeias around him. So a whole circuitous journey of denial, wisdom, scepticism and leap of faith constituted my awareness of how i made him up.
That instant, though, when he revealed his true self came upon me quite accidentally. In the interstices of my discursive ambivalence i divined, as he gazed at himself in the mirror, unaware of my presence, a certain self absorption that mirrored mine. His inner life, the mechanisms of his own set of constructions was disavowed by me by virtue of my own self centrality. So enmeshed was i in this version of my ingenuity that i consciously overlooked the concomitant process of his own myth making.
And while my self centrality, though indubitably mine, nonetheless partook of him his self absorption rendered me null and void. And in that preening smugness of his glance at the mirror, the conceited, solipsistic communion of himself with him self i penetrated the heart of the lacuna in our relationship. While i vacillated between confidence and self doubt his self regard was unwavering. When i recalled his inveterate reticence and uncommunicativeness i now recalled not taciturnity but obduracy. And something in me balked at this incongruity between the ostensible and the actual though the two blurred and superimposed fortuitously.
I am, though beset by insecurities, unwilling to relinquish this insight of mine or to have it circumambulate the habitual pantomimes and oscillations it generally undergoes. I really think i've hit upon something here. As fas as he is concerned the communication of this disconcerting epiphany is inconceivable. But i've got this arabesque to build on and fathom hitherto unplumbed depths. And such a process is, though informed by sordid reality, an art form in itself