Sunday, February 22, 2015


I mistook self consciousness to be the pathway to self healing. Being aware of myself, my every nuance, being aware also ,that implicit in that awareness was the inevitability of retrospective constructions, i assumed that a breakthrough was immanent. Some time elapsed before it become palpable to me that i was withdrawing from life and people, cocooning myself in a spurious self sufficiency that would take me further away from how i was to engage with and navigate life. And it was this inveterate self consciousness which drew the fact of my growing self alienation to myself. That the sagacity i treasured was makeshift didn't discomfit me as much as the fact that i couldn't figure out a mechanism of transcendence.
When i lived and loved my partner i often noted in myself a ceaseless dialectic between concealment and exhibitionism. I wanted to affirm to him the fact that despite my misgivings i cared for him. Simultaneously i fabricated all sorts of blueprints he might be moulding me into and strove, with my behaviour, to circumvent them. I was aware that a neurotic self consciousness was what beset me but i wanted him to perceive it as a sign of my maturity and thoughtfulness. I staved off his disquiet by projecting and superimposing my aegis. Needless to say it was a futile exercise.
What made it worse was the knowledge that my behaviour was not only self conscious but self destructive. I was witness to the accretion of my disintegrating sense of self. And even then ,while i was self congratulatory about my perspicacity i was also in deep despair about the irrevocability of this predicament i was so irretrievably enmeshed in. What this circumlocutory rationalization did was to precipitate and spawn further self negating actions. But by then i lost all track of what i had ever desired or wanted. Like in a mirror image, my self and its reflection to me existed in a closed circle. It was narcissistic. And my awareness of it, while prompting unnerving intimations of pathology nonetheless partook of and augmented the solipsism i sought to escape.
The problem is that one is taught to dissimulate. Even in an atmosphere of candour a certain dissembling is ineluctable. While one is enjoined to bare all in a culture of confessionality the darkest recesses of our unconscious are best kept secret. It is a mistake to assume from one's interlocutors the propensity of frankness. More often they are suffused with terror about their own survival and repulse any hint of unconstrained confession. And those who invite such confidences have, in my experience, unconscionably manipulated them and exploited me, with their demeanour, with the terrifying possibility that disclosure of my putative fraudulence is imminent.
As i did with my partner so i do now. I construct abstractions and facsimiles of who i can be. With sufficient sleight of hand i enact my pantomime of self consciousness knowing the chimerical nature of it. But what else can i do? A compendium of deceptions has been inveigled . I can loathe this dissembling,implode with the incipient burgeoning knowledge of my performance but what, i often ask is the alternative. Willy nilly i have fallen in love with the image in the mirror, purely to survive. Because on the other side lies an abyss which, with a precipitous plunge, would snuff out all remainders of life. That is where madness lies.

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