As recompense, and judiciously so, my inertia works wonders. My overstimulated imagination , compounded by my inherent suspicion of the prolongation of anything salutary, creates frantic arabesques that churn in the mosaic of my relationships. A jigsaw shifts, gets dispersed, relocates, the kaleidoscope undergoes incessant flux but my outward imperturability, which is really inertia ensures that an unaltered externality, even if it is a simulacrum, persists as a remnant.
I don't attribute my suspiciousness to my inherent scepticism. I am a product of a culture of provisionality and i began as an ingenuous novice, believing implicitly in the efflorescence of probity that underlay human consciousness. Anomalous demonstrations to the contrary too were brushed aside as incalculably counterbalancing. But when i discovered, to my accumulating dismay, that the putatively incongruous was de rigueur , that the unconscionable was , in a worldly sense comme il faut ,i experienced a profound disillusionment. And human goodness, certainly preponderant in many luminous countenances has, though witnessed sufficiently, failed to obviate or offset the larger disenchantment whose presence is proportionate to its presence in my peregrinations of human contact.
My partner has managed to, unsurprisingly, be oblivious to these inward exegetical excoriations of mine. I think the pattern of indolence i ostensibly emanate satisfies him. His obtuseness was the trait in him which drew me to him. If it was a stupid obtuseness or a bovine fatuousness i wouldn't come near him at all. But it is a willed obtuseness, a concentrating together of all the forces of repulsion that ensure that the mechanism of stability, attenuated through forcefields of abstracted goodwill, assiduously circumvent the importunate reminders of discomfiture which , repulsed agreeably through forceful denial refract into disjointed pixels the rejoining of which poses such an exertion of being that a consignment to oblivion becomes an occupational hazard.
So, subterraneously i know that my partner divines my frantic ebbs and flows despite my rather realistic awareness that he suppresses their disquieting intimations as precipitately as i reinstate a flurry of inconsequential nattering to waylay him. I have often noticed the furrow of puzzlement that striates his forehead when my immovability, otherwise interpreted as indolence, unnerves him as thoughtfulness. But i discern these imperceptible changes in his demeanour and circuitously steer the conversation onto more predictable, concurrent channels where the confluence of our concurrence is my augmentation of his denial and his buttressing of my acceptance of my reality.
I am rather pleased with this state of affairs. My ruminations of corporeal abdications of decency and humaneness redouble my self proclamation of myself as a realist. My simultaneously adroit suppression of this propensity from my interlocutor crystallizes my perspicacity. Ultimately this dichotomous paradigm, which i manufacture for my partner to witness only to defuse it ensures that his knowledge of my complexity will testify to the pantomime of illusion and reality that keeps this relationship going. And my performance , perfected each moment anew, pleases me immeasurably.