Looking over my copy of Freud's 'Mourning and melancholia' i had a thought. And a part of me witnessed me having this thought. As soon as i thought the thought it became the past. It was so gossamer that the interstice between thinking and articulating was infinitesimal. It eluded capture. And even as i write what i do now i am aware that, in the absence of conscious deliberation, the sentences are unfurling their polychromatic plumage in a form indiscernible to me. Whether i force myself to pause, think and write or allow my creativity to flow untrammelled i will hearken back to the same indeterminacy. And that is the conundrum of my consciousness.
Thinking through freud brings to me certain aspects of the past that lodge in my mind. Some crop up repeatedly because of the centrality i imbue them with. Others, more indistinct and unbidden, emerge from some nebulous hinterland where all this cavalcade lies jumbled. It is like a cacophony that jangles but from which, as a stream of thought diverges and cleaves to the conscious mind, a soothing susurrating warbles. Even unpleasant thoughts can be arias, lulling or soothing, through incessant brooding, into a somnolescence of non being. That, to me, is the liberation of consciousness where, freed from its trappings, the mind reverts to the amniotic fold in whose warm waters the foetus of my inner being reposes, restful and blank.
Sometimes this emptiness becomes a gnawing pain of inadequacy. At those moments i am wont to reach for the blade or pills. This emptiness is not the blissful oblivion of the womb but a kind of iterative discordant shriek of torment, gnawing within. Language deserts me then,as with the womb. While the incommunicability of the womb renders me agreeably wordless the emptiness of despair turns me into a monomaniac. And admittedly reading freud has made concurrently discernible, this morbid substratum in me. It is about what i choose to access and tune into. It never goes away but if its disquieting intimations are silent then a certain modicum of outward peace is arrived at.
If i allow myself to open up the doors of my convoluted enclosed consciousness chaos rushes in. I hear my brother singing in the other room, a dirge like mournfulness that striates my overwrought nerves into furrows of exasperation. This sound is indivisibly cleaved to me. Elsewhere the chomp chomp of my cousin eating a mutton chop interrupts this process of writing. I write amid this din but with the fear that these sounds will overtake me to such an extent that they will blot out words and inveigle an angry silence before i start screaming in anger. I resist it by resolutely focusing on, yet incorporating these sounds within my inner radar.
Child sexual abuse, sexual abuse at school and university, non hodgkin's, bipolar , father's death, worry of mother's illness, burgeoning painful love, inadmissible homosexuality, imminent dinner are all coiled and intermingled in the unstoppable unravellings of my mind. It is all densely conjoined. Sometimes something crops up and sometimes something else. This density, this impenetrable complexity squeezes my brain into tightening, tautening, circumscriptional streams of thought before under the insistent pressure of this caving in, and now i can hear my mother and brother fighting, it all bursts open. This is what i come up with.