It was his commendations that bothered me. I neither sought his approbation nor desired his wrath. Usually he was accustomed to function within the interstices. And his marked propensity for irony, usually latent and unarticulated, suddenly attenuated into shards of diffuse praise. And praise for nothing else but my sagacity in not letting him down which he misconstrued as a proof of my regard, a regard which obviated his unexpressed misgivings about his own reality.
As for me i seethed with animadversions but kept silent. His self regard took a twofold form. Not only did he convince himself, with unequivocal conviction, of his singular veracity but also impugned, though unconsciously, my own intelligence. Uncertain as to how i would negotiate this troublesome development i eschewed excoriation. I played along, fabricating my biding of time as a demonstration of my authenticity. Fool that he was, and how i now regret this pat objurgation, i became complacent.
I often wondered why i strove to please him so. Why when his empty grandiosity was palpable to me i protracted my involvement in this space i should already have relinquished with precipitant promptitude. That i did stay on proved to me that a metaphysical inanition desiccates me at the prospect of having to choose. It is a proclivity i hesitate to label escapist. Its inertia and ennui is imbedded in my psychologically. The engendering of inaction prolongs discomfiture and that is exactly what did occur.
What happened then was that two levels of intersection occurred between the two of us. At one level he superimposed his blueprint and i succumbed. At a substratum i grated and chafed against this containment. I was pinioned, entrapped, albeit ,in a certain measure, with my own complicity. Our consciousnesses diverged psychically though a simulacrum of coherence was externally discernible. But the battle of wills was fought silently. In me half hearted self abnegation mingled with unconstrained anger coalesced with complete immovability of any sense of volition.
Insidiously though i began seeing his worldview. Initially it augmented my piquant empathy for him but subsequently it became a worrisome self denial which was inveigled though as i said, with my collusion. While his incandescence preponderated in my mind my own reality became subfusc, tenebrous. And it wasn't even love. I alluded to my subterranean awareness of his machinations. But processes of inner transmogrification and nebulous and ineffable. To guard against this lapse into primevality requires self awareness.
When my disquiet metamorphosed into volition is another process that is amorphous. I daresay an analyst would put together a makeshift explanation. I incline to a view that the mysteriousness of our inner psyche transcends rational explanation. Had i listened to my unconscious would i have show a truthfulness to a part of me that was intra real? Or was my extrication from my predicament, rendered ineluctable by self protection, a higher form of apotheosis? I can only hazard that the truth lies somewhere in between.