Friday, July 25, 2014


Below the agreeable profile picture were a few words of prose. The words 'reality' was concatenated seemingly as flash fiction and conglomerated as a prose piece on the nature of reality. I hesitated momentarily because deciphering the nature of what constitutes reality is a favorite game of mine. And certainly it was a judicious pause because while i could, willfully circumvent reading something that might rouse my envy i could justify this interlude from reading further on by ruminating of the very conceptual coordinates of what i assumed this post to putatively be.

The mind ,i find meanders when forced into a train of thought that is forced upon it. Hence i dwelt on the nature of reality. What is reality. Certainly the postmodernists have deconstructed what we have considered reality to be but clearly certain realms of reality, pertaining to corporeal, sensory realms are incontrovertible. The feel of a feather stroking my cheek, the satiety of water trickling down my throat, the sharp jab of pain as a thorn pierces my finger all attest to a reality that is undeniable. When it comes to the manifestation and impingement of this reality on my consciousness and how i interpret it the matter becomes diffuse, more convoluted. And i have to wrench my eyes away from that enticing first word because once i plunge into it, i will be inescapably enmeshed as mankind is, within the interstices of the reality it creates and the reality of creation.

My fingers are itching to click on my profile link and thereby obliterate any possibility of reading this post altogether. Perhaps i could unfollow but i know that my envy, excitable at the best of times would love to self destructively immerse in the reading of this post. And i shall spend hours feeling inadequate, self loathing because someone else, even though they may not have but have,in my fractured and partisan vision, attempted and succeeded in unraveling reality in a way that i have not. So my mind vacillates, see saws and i defer my predetermined predicament by gathering my thoughts, trying to achieve in advance mnemonics the finding of which in this piece may lead me to feel self congratulatory about.

Whatever reality is, ipso facto ,it is. But the dappling of reality with my experience irradiates it, renders it luminous and pellucid. Thus, even if i were to read about the reality this post alludes to i can conveniently eschew its significations because they do not dovetail with my experience. And why must i accept another's apprehension of reality when my own sense of it, although fragmentary, suffices as an understanding of the irreality of it.

And indeed irreality is the underscoring of the indubitable fact of the provisionality of reality, its essential apocryphal quality. And though there is such a thing as external reality that i alluded to earlier there is also my cognitive comprehension of it and outer and inner intermesh to create a mosaic to which this post may be , with its allusive tantalizing glimpse but an insufficient, incompensatory arabesque. Nonetheless i better look on and read further to discern whether the blueprint of these latent possibilities are actualized or whether, to my dismay, something greater is discovered.

'The reality behind the gaza attacks' is the link with its attendant exegesis, with a quote quoted in quation marks above the link, which i mistook as flash fiction . There, both external reality, the reality mankind creates and my own inner reality are unaltered.

Thursday, July 24, 2014


In the tunnel. A surprise finding. Finding  of self. Inside the tunnel. Dark and light. Light filtering in. Darkness enveloped around. A finding place. A winding tunnel. Labyrinths of convolution. Spirals of complexity. The end loop. The beginning aperture. Between-  The tunnel.

A space to think. Think and reflect. Reflect on the way back and the way forward. The retraction of the way back. The progression of the way forward. And between retraction and progression the tunnel. The inveterate tunnel. The intractable tunnel. The tunnel unavoidably itself. The tunnel impossible to avoid.

He has gotten in somehow and can't find his way out and feeling bewildered and confused and unsure about the path he must traverse and wondering should he go back or should he go forward and what would happen were he to do either and what would the ramifications be and how will he survive.

So he decides to peregrinate the entire tunnel by negotiating it fully  thereby arriving at the point he began with which is the mid point wherein he both goes backwards then forwards whence  navigating the entirety of the tunnel whereby his circumambulation leads him back to mid point which is where things began when he found himself in the tunnel.

Wednesday, July 23, 2014


The question is - does he love me. ?

When the waves gleam incandescently and circumstances are conducive, i think that he does love me.

There are  moments in the gloaming when my self belief is shattered. I feel a form of self alienation,as though i myself don't belong in my own self conception. I feel, even then, that he loves me.

There are times when i am angry, resentful, grudging. I withhold my love yet i dissimulate conveying at least a facsimile of it. It is almost as though i overcompensate my lack of feeling by an avowal of at least something that reflects it, however indistinctly. All said and done  i believe that he loves me.

Looking into the mirror that is our relationship i am often taken aback by unsavory ruminations on narcissism. I am not always honest. Sometimes i pretend or rather construct an image that is at variance with my true authentic being. Though if i were, even with faith, to disclose my being i would surrender all my defenses and . So i don't give of myself fully. Still he loves me.

It is shattering to have damaged self esteem. Not only does it deracinate the self from the self but makes engagement with others inauthentic. Does he, then, still love me?

When i withhold and conceal not only do i  make an apocryphal proclamation that is insincere and meretricious  or overcompensate but also deny to him his own understanding of who and what i am because it shatters his image of me. Is it ,then, fit for him to love me?

Speaking of mirrors, they must never be taken for granted because they lie. The proffer something that we believe is truthful when it isn't . If the blueprint that i reflect to him unambiguously is what he unambivalently takes for granted then are we living an illusion, a makeshift unison or if i am not, as noted, corresponding to his blueprint of me then, should he love me?

Yesterday over a cup of coffee i reiterated again and again that i loved him. My unceasing asseverations must have struck home to him, given his self belief , the veracity of my regard. Or do my protracted assertions counteract the impression i seek to convey?  I think ,taking all into account, he loves me.

Watching my own face while washing it i saw my countenance reflected in the mirror. In this unguarded moment of utmost privacy i confronted myself with the lies i'd been telling myself, the illusions i'd been spawning on both our behalf. It was a moment of reckoning. I was tired of the prevarications i'd indulged in. I wanted an uncomplicated togetherness. Despite everything, he loves me.

And really, thinking through all this i came to the conclusion, seemingly retrospective, though predetermined was that the falseness i ceaselessly berated myself for may have emerged from the fact that i am falling out of any faith in our conjunction . The mirror never lies. And in that moment when the reality behind my self revilings was laid bare to me i was forced to face the important question.

The question is- do i love him?

Tuesday, July 22, 2014


Let's face it, reality is harsh. To measure up to reality is to be smart, worldly, perspicacious and somewhere, devious. In the face of unmitigated reality which is in itself quite splintered the idea of wholeness is not only difficult to conceptualize but impossible to actualize
The day is agreeable. The clouds sever as gusts of air cleft them and then regather to form complete shapes. The wind is agreeable though not gusty or ferocious. The grass undulates, the birds swoop and cry, uttering carillons on what seems joyous.

The waves ebb and flow. A wave advances, then retreats, leaving behind sediments which reconstitute with each onslaught, each reiterative wave being an arabesque that composes a complex, protean mosaic.

I left him eventually because there was no choice. I felt threatened, my very being imperiled. Of course i was inconsolable, frantic with whatever anchoring i had in life. But to go was sane, to stay irrational.

Leaving helped. It restored my self esteem, reflected to me, for a change, my own becalmed, tranquil countenance. I cannot inhabit another person's myth and version of reality. Much rather i'd be myself.

As each wave juts out, its composition varies. Though ostensibly similar, these concatenations of roiling waves each carry their own imprint, their own story, their own myth of the consciousness of the sea.

The severed clouds let in a fitful ray of sunlight which seems opalescent. The shapes of the clouds are gossamer, durable. The day portends rain with all the elements of the mythopoeia of what constitutes rain, set out. But the clouds can blow away, the wind settle down , the birds quieten  and the grass unmoving..

Against the harshness of reality are the significations i impose on it. More than the reality ,which is constructed, it is my being which is intransigent. Wholeness is not a chimera but it needs faith. It also necessitates a shattering of the old mythologies. And then what- a new myth? a new reality? 

Sunday, July 20, 2014


The crepuscular evenings depress me beyond measure. It is difficult, given my current solitary state, and a sorry state it is too, to hope for any reprieve from this unassailable loneliness. Scratch away at my dour simulacrum of independence and you will see a vulnerable heart that beats with love, for love, with the need for love. And thus i pine away or while away the time hoping for a change in circumstances but knowing, with irrevocable finality, the totality of my solitude.

We met by accident at a coffee shop where the sight of me pleased him immeasurably leading him to suggest a first date that i readily acquiesced too because i myself had just gotten out of a relationship and was on rebound mode and given the high levels of vulnerability and anticipation which conjoined to create an expectant readiness i was all too pliably ready to be subsumed under the aegis of another lover in order to escape my own existential solitariness.

Subsequently i left him and had to, given the fact of his incorrigible concealments, which, gradually, accreted and eroded the heart of our togetherness, nothwithstanding his utter intractability, an intransigence which, in its refusal to acknowledge that i, with my stake in the relationship too, might have my own needs and desires that, having overlooked completely, with his monumental selfishness, proved to be our undoing and i was glad, very glad to end the relationship, having felt, with not unjustifiable frustration that, in seeking subsumption under the canopy of love, i relinquished the totality of my identity.

Sheer solitude. Unmitigated fears. Penumbral dusk. Lonely meals. No arms. Protectively wrapped. Ensconcing warmly. Outside world. Terrifying introspection. House arrest. Grocery shopping. Meager meals. Insatiable appetite. Scant hunger. Terrifying aloneness. Life unwitnessed. Precipitate decline.

The loneliness got the better of me though i wanted to get the better of it. The neon lit up my porch and my porch, irradiated by the neon gave me hope. Hope was what i needed in this trying time and in trying times hope can outweigh disappointment.Disappointment outweighed by hope, much needed in trying times can, in the irradiated porch lit up by the neon given the fact that i wanted to get the better of the loneliness though it got the better of me and which i then fought off, gave me , despite everything, a desire to move on. So move on i did.