It is unfortunate that wisdom is often retrospective. Or more accurately, the conscious awareness of it. Misgivings, ineluctable, are lodged in the unconscious mind, where they churn, manifesting themselves in a slight here, a reproach there, somewhere a compromise, elsewhere renunciation. Because when one is in the middle of a relationship one is caught, as it were, in an interstice, between giving it a go and relinquishing entirely. Stasis, the accompaniment of indecision, is unavoidable.
The day in unseasonably warm. Even though it is day a tenebrous nullity benumbs my being. My plate of scrambled eggs, half eaten, lies inert on the table. Light pirouettes on the chequered tablecloth and its dancing reflections spangle the wall with lurid light. A sharp sense of unreality, a bewilderment negates any conscious certainty i might glean from these quotidian mnemonics. Rather, they augment the sense of chaos that my life is.
The thing is, he left last week. It seemed both a befitting culmination and an inevitable outcome. We never bickered but an inarticulate rancor corroded our togetherness. Had we voiced our doubts and insecurities, given tangible shape and form to our disquiet, we'd have found a way around what seemed irreconcilable. But we were both intransigent, uncompromisingly tight lipped and our putative reticence, in actuality a willed obduracy, let us down eventually.
The strange fact is that it would have appeared, given our self imposed withholding of our selves that a willed illusion, tempered by a resigned unknowingness about each other, might have obviated the possibility of differences. That because we were private, our privacy would be a bulwark against dissonance. However we divined each other's being quite well. Albeit through a process of rational construction , we formulated blueprints of the other's being, oscillating between an awareness of its precariousness and a self deluding belief, compounded by egotism, in its veracity. And ultimately the incontrovertible proclivity of authenticating our postulations, rendered incontestable by our privacy, widened the gulf between us, strengthened the sense of dislocation we felt with each other.
By no means do i imply that the insights we had on and about each other were fictitious. Clearly a certain truthfulness underlay it. Loquacity dissimulates interiority and makes the process of discovery harder because the integument of conviviality has to be unpeeled for the bare bones of hostility to emerge. And with rectitude, while the unraveling is easier, the signifiers and hints a gesture, tone or expression reveals is missing. But, nonetheless, with unmitigated impersonality, we observed each other unflinchingly. In our case the simulacrum and the actual intersected fortuitously to create a new configuration, that of complete bafflement.
And since he's left i am completely alone. At least with him even a facsimile of being together sufficed. All my eviscerations into his essence have now become excoriations. I pick the wounds of my hubris. The evening sets in, penumbra is inveigled, shadows deepen. The lamp incandesces the patterns in the tablecloth with a pellucid glow with striations of raveling threads, betokening hints of dissolution. With incipient night encroaching i subsume my unpartenered solitariness and take the plunge into nothingness and hope.