Friday, November 13, 2015


The world frightens me mainly because it doesn't make sense. And my fear is worsened by how limited my own knowledge of anything or anyone is. After countless plunges into relationships in good faith, fortified by what i perceived as my probity i have had to retract, having witnessed indifference and  anger from a few others, rather more than not. If i have chosen to circumscribe my life within these four walls it is because i am exhausted with the incessant struggle, both without and within. It is not , to me, resignation or submergence . I see this withdrawal as expedient . It is fruitless to plan for the future and though prolonged disillusion necessitates a protracted self protection the duration remains uncertain.

The internet remains a useful source of information and entertainment. I oscillate between the glut of escapism and a horrified acknowledgement of the unutterable horrors that assail the world. Some forms of violence are so inexplicable and primal as to suffuse me with atavistic, nameless apprehensions. Once i was wont to examine ill conduct, in myself and in others, with rigorous thoroughness but now much of human nature seems monumentally inchoate. Disquiets such as this affirm the wisdom of  self enclosure.

My own propensity towards melancholia is unhelpful nor does understanding help. If i do unravel the patterns underpinning my despair, as i have inveterately done , in the absence of a larger structure to buoy me then my understanding caves in on itself, collapses inwards , becoming a bone chilling enervation and transmuting into striations of dread that foreclose any possibility i may formulate. My mind preempts disaster and catastrophe and the recent spate of events around charlie hebdo , peshawar and nigeria underscore the precariousness of the world i live in. It is not a cocoon or the desire for an oasis, however inadequate, that is preponderant in me . What has prompted this willed withdrawal is dignity, the dignity of having my own patch of ground to be annihilated in, should the possibility arise. Obliteration on terra firma, in both a symbolic and a real sense, a homecoming in the face of imminent disintegration.

This house, this room i inhabit is only ostensibly a truncated space for detachment. In point of fact this temporal fulcrum, which has always felt provisional and contemporary global events exacerbate that tenuousness, is a repository of the alterations of my consciousness, of the constellation of possibilities i have traversed and negotiated, largely unsuccessfully. It seems a perverse egotism, this imputation of the threat of violence in this block of flats i live in and amid, given the unexceptional lives lived here by thoroughly unremarkable people. The lives lived here by many, and i have dissociated from them, are an amalgam of insecurity and self righteousness. Everything is repressed and conversations tend to be platitudinous. In point of fact the provincialism and parochialism in my neighbourhood is more of a reason for my self containment than the world. Because the severity of repression engenders a censoriousness and intractable certainty which gets enforced through psychic violence. Moments of contretemps and mortification i myself have faced have outstripped me in this community. Agoraphobia is something that seems to be ineluctable.

My melancholia, or clinical depression grants me exemption from partaking in quotidian social life. I cultivate a certain dispassion and often respond to my neighbours solicitude, tinged with concern and pity, with rebarbative reminders of their own hypocrisy. This sharp tongue, itself a defensive weapon of survival, has intensified my alienation. I do not belong and am content to let my incontestable otherness, incontrovertibly deserving of respect though having that desire thwarted, exist in a vacuum of moral rightness. My own irreproachibility is palpable to me , a certainty wrested by tremendous self questioning and ostracization. I am not a victim or else everyone is a victim . The world is victimized by its potentiality for darkness. A bottle of sleeping pills lies at hand near my bed . The choice of an ending, self propelled seems more salutary than being shot dead by some fanatic. Meanwhile my disenchantment keeps me alive. My very existence is a reproach to many around me, a reminder of their own unconscionable proclivities and no gentleness will ever deflect them from the spectre of their shittiness . I will ensure that they are reminded of it . Agoraphobia is its own statement of defiance and it is the tumult of fury than the haplessness of resignation that motivates me. Thus from my own small corner , i protest and thrive.

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