Saturday, May 24, 2014


Goodness unravels from me. Probity constitutes me. I take to gazing at the mirror and find much in what is reflected to me that is agreeable. I am a vast blankness, a primordial nothingness. Into the vast pool of my tabula rasa i inscribe the hieroglyphs of my becoming. I see an image in the mirror. The image is perfect. Therefore the mirror reflects a perfect image. Hence i am perfect.

After all, the emptiness of our ontology renders becoming unavoidable. Do i have a self, an original prelapsarian self?Or does the abasement of the fall define mankind. I'd like to asseverate that i have a noble self, a nobility the indeterminacy of the cosmos imprints in me. Onto this layer of anterior goodness i etch indelible signifiers of my own nobility. The vast reservoir of attributes are out there. I choose my own accoutrements and given the inherent desire for rightfulness i choose, invariably, the appropriate appurtenances.

So i am sheathed against the depredations of collective consciousness by the incontrovertible purity of my being. The world being the cruel place it is, misunderstandings are inevitable. Often i find myself being accused of solipsism when in fact those who direct these accusations at me evince the solipsism they accuse me of. The aforementioned depredations in a fragmented world necessitate a certain pathological proliferation of neurosis. I, with my superior knowledge, often try to tell people, particularly intransigent borderlines, that they need to watch out for their neuroses which can, with astonishing rapidity, lapse into psychosis.

I am solitary. Solitariness is ineluctable. Because of my veraciousness i tell people the truth. Partly as defense mechanism, partly as pettiness i am often told it is me who is psychologically disturbed. People insist on projecting, on seeing their own unconscious blueprints on me  Well i've read my freud and jung. I am well versed in the tenets of psychoanalysis. I understand the world, i understand myself. I don't feel bewildered or irascible when counter accused thus. My blamelessness is a given, my inherent virtuousness self evident.

Often though i do let self doubt creep in. These unbidden visitations are subterranean, nocturnal. I listen to these misgivings for do they not demonstrate my introspective streak, my thoughtfulness. Yes, my loneliness does grate on me, the number of people who enter my life and leave precipitately discomfits me but then in a world whose morality has become apocryphal such derelictions are irrefragable. There are always good people around and i will eventually find one who sees me exactly as i see myself. 

Friday, May 23, 2014


He obliterated all traces of self that i possessed. Whether such sleight of hand was augmented by my own complicity is beyond me. He created a blueprint of me and convinced me it was my own. I internalized his image of me. Ever since whenever i look into the mirror the lineaments of his consciousness proliferates the specks and crannies of my mental attic while my own reflection, denied any agency of self constitution blurs and is rendered indistinct.

Occasionally i do try to recollect that i had a self before i was submerged so precipitately under his aegis. Most times though this is not conscious knowledge. Intimations, nebulous hints crop up, suffusing me with a valedictory sense of possibilities forsaken. I wreath these fragments commemoratively, creating my own amorphous mosaic of variegation to act as a bulwark against the monochromatic unvaryingness i am ineluctably forced to inhabit.

He mythologized me and i doing so robbed me of any contingent being. He embalmed me. As the myth deepened and gathered momentum my history dwindled until through a gradual and imperceptible accretion all consciousness of my ontology was entirely negated. In the entropic nothingness of annihilation a modicum of identity buttresses from the illimitable chaos of a vast indeterminate cosmos. But even such restitution is denied me.

One of the ways of knowing who you are is to identify who you are not. And so seamlessly coalesced am i to the image in the mirror that not only have i relinquished, partly collusively and partly through coercion, any remnant of who i was but the antithesis of myself, that which i am not has also been  erased. Hence my dispossession is redoubled.

It seems ironical that i can expatiate on my predicament, evince self knowledge when any knowledge of myself is now chimerical, with only a carapace, a intransigent  layer of palimpsest overlying  my now tenuous  originary self conception. And perhaps in the tenebrous emptiness of oblivion, with no sanctified being to latch on to, a requiem to my displacement is, ironically, the only certitude i can proffer. I hold on to this lack and carve, through the mediation of self knowingness, a newer telos for myself. 

Tuesday, May 20, 2014


When the opalescent dusk gathers shape around me, a shapeless indistinctness i often think about the precipitous moments that brought me here. Clearly some remnants of those memories manifest physiologically while others, tremulous, uncertain waver and snuff out because  so painful were they that repression was ineluctable and the amorphous misshapen lump of my existence, as i perceive it now, seemed not a conglomeration of memories but a becoming i have extricated from the cavalcade of imponderables that constitute my existence. In a way, the structure of becoming is a shaft refracting variegation but the form is unaltered.

Indeterminately though the telos of memory itself discomfits me immeasurably, signifying an obsession with the past i find distasteful. When i recollect the eldritch fusillade of happiness n unbidden memory uncovers i feel rather left out. But i have always sealed off any intimations from my past that are disagreeable, expunging, from my consciousness any slivers of disquiet that would unsettle the precarious equilibrium i have established.

But my aforementioned ruminations disclose to me how tenuous my edifice is, how uncertain the scaffolding i've buoyed myself with is. It seems as though i am circumventing the exigencies of my own memories inundating me with their unnerving significations by cogitating, rather philosophically, on the nature of memory. A dissociation between the contingent and the universal is bringing forth a precipitate convergence so that the eventfulness of my own life simultaneously buttresses and discomfits.

Memory is really negation, a negation of the quotidian. But memory irradiates the quotidian too. Memory, like a wave, draws out, retracts and leaves behind sediments that forever transform the architectonic of our consciousness. Memory is the canopy under which experience apprehends its constituents and resolves the putatively irresolvable. Memory is the reconciliation between cognition and consciousness. Memory juts out, through the unconscious, pulsations of causalities and with each subsequent remembrance a transmogrification of aegis occurs. Memory metamorphoses an unmindful , insentient, unreflecting being into a thoughtful one. Memory is the price we pay for possessing the ability to traverse temporality.

So if the incontrovertibility of memory renders unavoidable the process of recollection and deliberation then i choose to submerge into the inevitable. But it is always good to understand the phenomena underlying the coordinates incandescing it. Now in a way hitherto inadmissible before, i feel ready to move on. 

Sunday, May 18, 2014


My temporal progression through temporality enervated and invigorated me equally. Lugubriousness, indwelling, coexisted with ebullience. Moments when the desire to relinquish was most conspicuous was also the moment when to hold on, to clutch, embrace existed. While i disallowed destiny to incapacitate me i did, through its capricious visitations, harbor certain piquant indentations of experience on my soul where the occasional presence of the crepuscular redoubled the radiance of the sanguine.

I peregrinated memory through the mediation of reason. I imbued randomness with exegesis. I eviscerated all possible significations of discomfiture by rendering them explicable. Yet memory, tremulous, uncertain, evaded me. My traversings were a form of ineffectual embattlement where the form of ratiocination wrestled with an inchoate unconscious. There seemed to be a foreclosure of restitution.

Cataclysmic time irradiated filaments of perception with anterior indeterminacy. The search for ontology was perpetual regression, incessant doubling back to the present through an unfathomable past. I am a parthenogenetic incertitude, a blankness of which are scrolled an infinitude of becomings. In the midst of all this self constitution the essence, the being, the womb i emerged fro is bypassed or lost hold of altogether.

Anomalousness studs me and i do inhabit tenebrous spaces where erasure becomes my ontology. That i exist by virtue of being deemed inexistent or perhaps nugatory. Yet that which defines me is placed against me and therefore depends for its existence on me. Am i predetermined or does the forestalling of eventuality dapple me with conspicuous perspicuity?

Perhaps the answer lies in the fact that i simply am. In the phosphorescence of recollected tranquillity i emit fusillades of unconstrainable ecstasy. I am a rent, i am cleft. It is through the interstices of my predicate and metonymy that phenomena, indeed life comes to be. I am life.