Tuesday, June 16, 2015


My love,
I find your formlessness liberating. But i know that were i to give form to your unknown quantity on an individual i would find him inadequate. Because more than anything you are a conglomeration of abstractions. In a sense you are also inchoate. But i don't have the energy to transmute you on to anyone. Yet the impulse towards love, the neediness underlying it , induces a certain volition
As a teenager i was besieged by hormones. I saw a prick and that's all i saw. Though i did imbue the objects of my desire with the paraphernalia of popular romance. Underneath that was the concupiscent impulse, fucking, mindless fucking. You still lived on, tremulously ,at the back of mind but desire superseded imagination. And imagination became inseparable from fantasy. My sweaty erotic dreams were insufficient recompense for the voracious sexuality that burgeoned in me.
He fucked me in the chemistry lab. He was from afghanistan, a hairy brute but devilishly handsome. I had spent incessant nights dreaming of him. That day as i worked on test tubes he undid my pants and forced his dick into my ass. It was immeasurably painful, a brutal visitation of aggressive flesh onto my tender one. My mind was a kaleidoscope of simultaneity that moment though i could only capture it in retrospect. Yes it was rape, unmitigated rape but had i, by imaginatively constructing this scenario in my head for endless nights, neutralized its cataclysmic implications. And this actualization of my fantasy, arbitrary and unexpected as it was, revealed the inherent dangerousness of a scenario where the fantasy became a reality. I was startled and yet there was something pleasurable in this pain. The inveterate victim in me thrilled at the possibility of plaintive grievance this would engender. And later, when i reconstructed this experience i considered alternative scenarios wherein i could exercise a certain autonomy. But the experience shook me and reminded me that desire and actuality could be incongruous , that violence and sex were inextricably intertwined and that sex was about emotion too. My emotional numbness when he raped me, with the accompaniment of bodily pain, induced a stasis, a void that i cocooned myself in.
It was then, as the salad days of adolescence came to a crushing halt , that i extracted your essence from my unconscious and conceptualized it. The jigsaw of your qualitativeness accumulated as attributes accrued. But though you were a blueprint i still believe you exist. A german singer is currently the conduit through which my fantasies of you are projected. What i see of him is the performative self he conjures up on television. And it is this unreality, which could, after all be a subterranean reality, that makes him a focus on my idea of you . Will i ever meet him, will i experience that kiss as his trimmed silken beard caresses my cheeks. It all remains indeterminate but hope is what i live on and for.
Loving you, always and forever

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