Tuesday, June 30, 2015


Love baffles me. Not the acknowledgement and professing of it but the uncertainty it generates in the interlocutor. Language slips away. Sometimes my assiduous protestations of a humane love are mistaken for lubricity. I certainly don't discern nor possess any tangible concupiscent impulse though my unconscious often unnerves me with its disquieting intimations of sexuality. Even where an awareness of my exiguous circumstances might induce a certain shifts in aegis i sometimes get misunderstood and unfriended. My impulse is to elucidate the specifics of my position but i know that the unfriending is an irrevocable act.It is redolent of something final and immutable. Any resumption of a friendship then seems makeshift, an etiolated diminution because a misgiving, lodged deep in anyone' mind cannot be easily relinquished. It may very well be a way to obviate the threat of what love can do .
A proclamation of love is often interpreted by some as a claim on themselves as though by uttering the word one is staking out a territory, with proprietary presumption, within the jurisdiction of their psyche.The underlying fear being that of something being expected , of something being demanded, indeed wrested, that cannot be bestowed without a grievous damage to the self. Thus layers of dissimulation and self denial obfuscate and distort the processing of love . It may attest to human fallibility but love is never simply a simple feeling of being, however undefinable but a compendious cornucopia of the self where certain metamorphoses might be inveigled that may destabilize the sovereignty of the self, its precarious foothold on its singularity. I don't claim to be above these fears. Doubtlessly i partake of their messiness.
Love ultimately is what we all seek and perhaps the acknowledgement of this terrifying need leads to a regression to childhood where our importunate petitioning for love is interlaced with a fear of our dependence, our helplessness, of our sheer survival. It is then that the arbitrariness of being human strikes us. As we grow older we reconfigure , we do find love but for many the undercurrent of a primordial fear ,of a retraction to that infantilized state, ruptures equilibrium.
People do find love. And it may be an acceptance of its sheer randomness that may inform our experience. It moulds itself to the other, incorporating the other while affirming the self, finding ,in accepting the other's love, with all its limits and apotheosis, a measure of our own transcendence. I prefer being a vessel of love, a reservoir of reserves of that uncontainable depth which is unconditionally absorbed by me. It is not erotic or candyfloss. It involves human darkness. But it is its own light.

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