Saturday, May 17, 2014


A while back i rid myself of his clutches. He, repository of tales of love, receptacle of my neurosis, entrapped me into a vision of myself i subsequently found hard to relinquish. There was something impetuous about the way in which he was simultaneously rebarbative and cloying. It took me quite some time to detach myself and impersonally come to terms with the conundrums and unclassifiability of his complexity. He was an all encompassing pool in whose depths i gazed enraptured, falling in love with the blueprints he proffered , rendering inadmissible even to myself the possibility that what i envisaged as freedom was a fetter, a catacomb entombing me with its suffocating depths.

What attracted me to him was his intractability, his way of presenting an anomalous surface which drew attention to its putative specialness. The demonstration of erudition compounded my sickly cleaving. . He explicated on phenomena at great length and with immense depth yet seemed disconnected from the knowledge he evinced. He seemed aware of the interstices of complexities in causality yet incapable of any kind of self awareness. Ontologically he appeared whole yet the cracks began to show when he projected his inadequacies on to me. I became a vessel for him, a conduit , to funnel his self loathing out, albeit indirectly, through misappropriation and extrojection and reaffirm a tremulous wholeness which was, in actuality, a tenuous egotism, buttressed by prevarication and confounded by my contradictory  expostulations.

It seemed irresolvable, yet incontrovertible that such ignorance of the self could coexist with outward knowledge. A simulacrum of veracity could only have proven chimerical because his behavior and its incongruities marked out the irreconcilability between outer and inner. By the time the knowledge of his perversion became conscious, a knowledge i possessed right from the start but repressed and eschewed things were too far gone. I was unhealthily dependent. He got under my skin. The entire apparatus, the ineluctable paraphernalia of my being was contingent on the workability of our intersection. There were moments where i retracted but would  invariably conjoin again with great self loathing because it was a predicament i was immured in both with and against my consciousness of the incommensurability between illusion and reality.

What called the whole thing off was inadvertently myself. An accidental comment, which he took to be a criticism of him led him into a fusillade of vituperation that led to an irreparable, unbridgeable breach. It took me some time to reassemble, dependent as my self esteem had been on him, but eventually i managed it. Our future intersections were evanescent, wary because we'd both smashed the mirrors of our relationship leaving nothing but splintered shards and emptiness.

The conclusion i drew was the inevitability of the truth of our bodies and the significations they provide on things which our mind catches on to much later. As also the unavoidability of the misgivings the unconscious promulgates. It was sheer obduracy that drew us to each other, the intransigence of seeing the reflection as  the truth. It was necessary for truth to reflexively adumbrate an inherent self authenticity that broke our mutual self deception. That a nebulous but possible future beckons, with the actualization of apotheosis, scaffolds and irradiates.

Thursday, May 15, 2014


Recondite subject matter buttresses me. It is almost as if, the pressures of the concrete being too onerous to contemplate, random caprice buoys me. In my rather abstruse cogitations i find sitting before the mirror and deliberating upon things rather agreeable. The reflection, or its reflexiveness, precipitates areas of amorphousness the unraveling of which constitutes one of life's chief delights.

On that eventful day the wave of reminiscence was submerging me in a cavalcade of both sanguine and unpleasant recollections that alternately pleased and discomfited me. I couldn't countenance the kaleidoscope of contrary feelings because equanimity was my attribute. And this concatenation of memories, shimmering, diminishing, impoverished me from any sense of wholesomeness i might have envisaged.

To protect myself i started thinking of the mechanism of memory itself as though, through some ratiocination a remnant of order could underlie this inchoateness. By transfiguring experience to phenomena, by substituting the lived with the architectonic i sought to circumvent and offset the penumbral in my otherwise luminous consciousness.

Yet each though folded in on itself. My own  memory, piquant, was held up before me , with its causality, with  lucid clarity before it retracted and subsequently reemerged with greater importunity . Sometimes, albeit tautologously, my mind embarked on an experience whose unceasing replication revealed its importance in my life as much as my obsessiveness over it, which i thought had become acceptance over time.

My impassive gaze held on to my reflection in the mirror but the tumult in my mind overwhelmed me. It seemed i as beset by a force larger than myself and its unbidden visitations shocked me into knowing that even in the aegis of my own experience, with the mirror hanging gilt opposite me, there was only that much that i could control. The imperatives of reason, tremulous, precarious, raised their ineffectual constituents before submerging into tenebrous nullity, a nothingness.

I had set out to unravel memory and my own experience proved too powerful a presence to reckon with. My complicity with the mirror, in so far as it conspired with me in abrogating reality and relinquishing its commemorative hold, dissolved and evaporated. Though outwardly, the lineaments of my self demonstrated a sameness of reflection i was a mere facsimile of myself, having been scoured and attenuated by memory to recollect even a putative completeness my integument may have illusorily inhabited.

Though i realized it in retrospect i had, unbeknownst to me,in the suffusion and submergence of the phenomenon of my own recollection, unearthed the teleology of memory in itself.


I am introspective, pathologically so . I like to believe i know my unconscious. I have endeavored, at many points in my life, to deconstruct the lineaments of my being , so much so that i have discovered, much to my chagrin, aspects of being of whose existence i was hitherto unaware. Yet off late my exegetical excoriation has deserted me. I find myself increasingly unable to delve deep. And i think it stems from the fact that there is some repression involved, some deeper concealment of me from myself that i need to plumb.

Today i did an interesting thing. I stood in front of the mirror hoping to externalize myself and subsequently introject the significations reflected back to me. I saw my reflection, i saw myself, inescapably conjoined yet incontrovertibly split. Fragmentation cascaded from every runnel in my mind. I couldn't hep noticing that what i saw was not a bleached simulacrum of a reflection but an alien being, an extension of me, indivisible yet with a palpable agency of its own. By extrojecting myself i had rendered separate a part of me unbeknownst to myself. Yet, through this retrospective knowledge a part of my essential being was thoroughly sullied and impugned.

I know i see a reflection of myself. I know it is my own being, cleft through the mediation of the mirror in my consciousness. But the part of me that is me feels tenuous and the part of me which the mirror reflects seems anterior, hearkening back to a realm of consciousness that is unfathomable, untraversable. The hints and feelers my reflection throws at me suffuse me with inadequacy. Knowledge advances, self awareness retracts and the singularity of my becoming ebbs and flows. The reflection's otherness others me from myself because my appraising, discerning consciousness seems to have become apocryphal too.

What, then, am i promulgating? That i have no telos or does the mirror have no reality? The veraciousness of seemingly disparate phenomena surely lies in between. What the mirror revealed today, in parenthesis was how unknowable i was to myself, was to be to myself. Any factuality, arrived at with any modicum of exactitude, would, of necessity, be dubious and inauthentic. I felt relieved and reprieved yet discomfited and unnerved. The sole conclusion of my unceasing ruminations, incisive  peregrinations into myself was that i could never know myself in entirety. The reality of indeterminacy and irresolution of even the most sacred and inviolable fulcrum of being, my own self, required a relinquishment of self regard and augmentation of a jouissance i could not access but experience. This made a metaphysician out of me. 

Tuesday, May 13, 2014


When i stand by the shore, the waves lap at my feet. Their unceasing ebb and flow betokens a continuity which seems both transient yet immutable. I journeyed here to seek escape, escape from the importuning demands of oppressive experience in a relationship where my passivity, my self effacement rendered me invisible, obliterated me. Here, with the waves unceasing advance and retraction i reaggregate a modicum of the self i relinquished, rather willfully because had i chosen i would have extricated myself from this mess but i, perhaps masochistically, or with foreclosed inevitability chose to stay, chose to undergo further suffering.

Striations of sand crumble underneath my feet. They are smooth yet gritty. Their feel on my integument is silky yet abrasive. The sun irradiates the waves with shimmering light that blinds the eyes for an instant and then as the eye readjusts specks of luminosity spark off, ricochet, creating a spangle of conglomerating points of iridescence that is touching. In this heat, where the tautness of my muscles is unknotted, where i become langorous, indolent i ruminate on ending this closed circle of self hatred i inhabit.

For it is true that he embalmed me, made me become what he wanted me to be. He shaped me, gave me form but like all creation i evinced a simulacrum of acquiescence that concealed my own primordial propensities. Clearly he was convinced of his invincibility and my precipitate departure must have shocked him too, out of the complacent self regard of unabashed egotism.

As the day wanes a cool breeze evaporates the beads of sweat the sun embeds on my pliant skin. The wind blows my hair around. In this penumbral landscape i hear the susurration of subterranean insects. In the light of the neon, the undersea glows momentarily phosphorescent. The waves swell as moonlight advances, attenuate their flanks, roiling and encroaching on the landscape. All odors, pleasurable by day, become stale and malodorous. Their disagreeable emanations mingle with the saline tang of sea water, the crisp scent of ferns and the nocturnal emissions of plants, piquant yet sharp.

Leaving him was unavoidable. I need closure. I want to call it quits. Because throughout this relationship i abrogated my subjectivity. I was compliant, molding myself according to the blueprints he shaped around me. The evanescent permanence of nature gives me courage, distills hope because i know that any retraction from my resolve would have irrecoverable consequences, would imbue with finality something that could have been circumvented. My essence, stoppered for so long, wafts out through the crevices of his precarious narcissism. Here, in this tenebrous night i reassemble myself, putting together a coherent being, not a makeshift facsimile. A strong will, an inexorable strength is called for to finish things off.

The morning is bright with unsullied light. The sea is incandescent. My resolve is determined. I pack my bags and move homewards, where freedom always reposed.