Sunday, March 29, 2015

THE MISTRESS

Is a rather portentous form of self referral. Though undoubtedly, accurate enough. The language has an old fashioned quality, it solicits felicitously, betokening an embalmment in a becalmed interstice of the sacred and the profane. At any rate such is, given the ontological ground of my aetiology, the address directed at me.
Nobody comes up to me and impugns me. People are either too intimidated or too contemptuous of my peripheral state to bother accosting me. I am used to cold, hard stares which i return with an equally frosty glare. People drop their eyes then. Insouciance , with nonchalance, can obviate many a cold countenance of its sanctimony. It is the contumelious objurgations, however, that i find hard to shake off. They follow me everywhere. And i feel helpless.
The man who loves me loves another man and is married to another woman and is having an affair with another man. These putatively convoluted shenanigans testify to the vagarious nature of his love interests. Do each of us, in our indivisible ways, gratify an aspect of him the other cannot. Sometimes i think of him as a mosaic, a composite aggregate of our respective selves, each of us being arabesques concentered around him. But i am tired of being a festoon. I desire a certain centripetal propulsion.
It is not that i am jealous of his numerous partners. We've all met and liked each other on separate occasions. And this dispersion of love is perhaps wise. Too concentrated a focus intensifies and imperils at the same time. That we can become, theoretically, as partners, sole receptacles of each other's madness is a frightening thought. The mind needs distraction, consciousness seeks attenuation. Am i then justifying this state of affairs as it is. Perhaps i am, but given that i quail against the epithet mistress suggests that in my heart, i am a conventional woman.
Though speaking of diffusion such a state of affairs as mine requires a mutual reciprocity and openness. Eschewing possessiveness, a very human trait is not easy. It is my belief that underneath all the flim flam of our paraphernalia of romance we are all seeking to consume each other, incorporate the other in our mythology of ourselves. This ravenousness is not inimical to our humanness but determinative of it. But we seem to have managed reasonably practicably. I, for one, alternate my own sexual rendezvous with his other partners. It is all intellectually pat and metaphysically inviolable.
But lately i am tiring of this process of adjusting and reconfiguring. I am concerned, with the passage of time, that repositories of each other's iconoclasm as we are, we might end up entombing, in our collective consciousness, the irrevocable imprint of mortality and disillusion. That, in seeking uncertain certitude in the face of a provisional and fallible humanity we might offset , as our unconscious unravels, a process of regression so irrecoverable that we might end up hating each other.
I can sense such attrition even now. There is a forced joviality in our comminglings. Our banterings are stained and febrile. And he, whose mistress i am, embodies an ineffectual jocoseness that exacerbates my misgivings. I need to settle down, by fructifying the lessons of largesse i learned through these intersections. To transplant this myriad profusion to a singular relationship is far more agreeable than disintegrating and nullified into non oblivion, which is how our polyamorousness began.

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