Sunday, October 25, 2015


That summer was when i began experiencing misgivings about my friendship with him. We had gone along well, long enough, at any rate, for me to avoid self doubt from wrecking me within. He, presumably content to absorb my sincere self proclamations for what they were, with unperturbed gravity, with the occasional enlivening warmth, convinced me not only of his belief in me but of my belief in myself, of the version of myself i was presenting to him, both as a self i wanted to become and the self i felt myself, with the occasional flash of intuition , to be. But if i was manifesting the immanent then was not the stratum of authenticity a given despite surface aberrations? Or is it that i was working myself over into a work of art , a self , an artistic daubing of something inchoate with more sanguine brushstrokes. I was unwilling to relinquish my skepticism about myself but was equally unwilling to disregard the mnemonics of what i took to be the promptings of my inner self, whatever that was. So in a sense by both acceding to the impalpability of knowledge whilst placing faith in certain imperceptible currents of perception in me , i got lost.

None of this was immediately noticeable because i was enraptured by my being with him. But being with him also made me feel as though a part of me, never discerned but indwelling, had become irrecoverable. When he spoke to me kindly in my emotional tumult i both resented yet craved the gentleness of his solicitude. At one level i believed that he cared and at another i distrusted his ministrations, partly because i distrusted myself. I had begun this friendship on an ingenuous note whose underlying solipsism coloured everything with its garish tint, except the awareness of its own luridness. When the extremity of insecurity that underlay dissimulation surfaced i usually quashed it , disallowing submergence. But repressions accrete and atrophy.

At one layer of my personality i knew that this ceaseless dialectic of certitude and doubt was becoming indulgent. Deeper down i was discovering aspects of myself that were profoundly discomforting. I had, on a certain integument of our intersection, convinced myself that i could will things to work through restraint and adroitness, circumventing a misgiving here, offsetting a troubling recollection there. But that integument was overlain by a leap of faith which was as much suspension from my own neurotic underpinnings. That i labelled such dissembling spontaneous and organic didn't help. And yet there were moments when when i touched his cheek, hugged him, commiserated with him over his exhausting work day, prepared a meal for him , i discerned a sincere love and desire for his well being, healthfulness. I enjoyed his presence, our conversations.So was the paraphernalia of subterranean neuroses embedded both within me and without my more realistic cognizance of what lay beneath or was the very sincerity i discerned and revered so inconceivable a possibility that i needed to impose layers of unconscious intent on it. Was my preconception of our darker natures an admission of truth in all its multifariousness or an avoidance of the truth that i loved and cared too much? The polychromatic nature of psychological constructions,however unvaryingly monochrome within, can dazzle and distract with a kaleidoscope of shifting perceptions. With each refraction one can get lost in the interplay of interlocked forces. The array of shifting constellations, variations yet amplifications, ricochetings yet crystallizations inhabit a closed circularity. If between me and him , through our respective beings, lies a vast untapped, impenetrable gulf then should the play of surfaces consume me utterly? Or should constant self doubt and self loathing underscore the precariousness at the heart of it? Or a appropriation of him onto me or a surrender of myself both alternately abnegating and augmenting the self.

Ratiocinations of such a nature are unproductive and self important. With me and him there will always be the landscape of the known, felt, experienced with the unknown, the unknowable and the inapprehensible. All i have are the promptings of my heart, of their genuine waves on whose tides of probity, felt but incommunicable, the scaffolding of our relationship rests. The bulwark of an inward honesty in no way safeguards against any cataclysmic rupture that may or may not come. All it does is evince that one does one's best, with all truthfulness, to the feelings  of connection, love, empathy that throb within. It may be insufficient but is still, satisfying enough, for the moment.

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