Appearances transfixed me . They palliated my melancholy ruminations which usually led nowhere. Or rather they led me into swamps and hinterland shoals that presented me with a prospect of my self that distressed me. It was not so much the ignoble impulses which i have found to be universal. It is just that human beings are unpredictable. Candor, which i rather artlessly demonstrated, concealing underneath a need for vindication , often landed me in trouble. It was not the sordid mnemonics of the interior which distanced my interlocutors from me but those overtures of affection and regard. Having divined their inwardness i was only too happy to offer propinquity, though of a serious and intense nature. Since then the virtue of lightness has revealed itself to me. Where a certain frivolity prevails, a lightness of touch is interspersed lavishly amid recondite interchanges, intimacy, in all forms, is intensified. It is imperative to retain a sense of casualness, a sense of communication, through that casualness, of untapped reserves of one's own inner life. Where need, regard, expectation are guilelessly laid bare to the other , a diminution of excitement occurs. And in the long run constancy, however salutary , is overridden by a taste for the maverick. Which is why infusions of incongruity, of some objectionable but enlivening insouciance, keeps the flame alight.
I am not very good in showing that lightness of touch. I find it a strain to conjure up a flurry of scurrilous, chatty small talk. I tend to veer and steer the dialogue onto more serious ground and it is there that an indulgent exasperation, imperfectly concealed , by a friend, induces wordlessness. Its alternative is an unleashing of astringent bitter experiences of humanity which , by their very dispiriting inspidity , cast a pall. I avoid social functions and seek comfort in solitude. Very prepossessing is the processing of experience, of examining myriad possibilities. It fills up time. I am not presumptuous enough to impute veracity to my meanderings because psychological analysis,with its own presuppositions,tends to circumscribe complexity. And i am not a psychoanalyst who can find patterns and feel smug about having understood something. Patterns can be overwhelmingly obvious as also quite limiting. It is dangerous to grasp at certainty . It is dangerous too,in a collusive conversation of a certain unserious nature, to betray one's desire to penetrate the truth. The rewards of such intense desire for apprehending something are withdrawal and a certain dissociation. An irrevocable breach is easier to handle, simply due to a certain closure one can force on things, amid much that is unarticulated on both sides. But a modicum of closeness seems like a simulacrum because one treads tenuous ground and thinks more often than communicates.
All of this is discernible to me as an intrinsic part of human consciousness. The currents of the unconscious have existed for very long but there is, in the age i find myself in , a certain complicated process of rationalization and self exoneration from which i am not unexempt either. Even the process of choosing self preservation is imbued with a reaffirmation of self worth. A certain obliviousness to ramifications outside of oneself is an expedience that is necessary . A certain willed disavowal of the very human implications confers the analgesia of forgetfulness which is a willed repression. The unbidden memories , depressing as they are, can usually be tweaked into a narrative of grievance, a misanthropy that is indulged by the self. Artistry is as much a bulwark for the solitary as it is for the exhibitionist. That such artistry is unwitnessed, except by oneself , is very cold comfort but rendered ebullient by a forceful self examination of the substratum underpinning this.
I am aware of long, cold nights where such introspection ameliorates lonesomeness. I never quite push away my misgivings to the peripheries as much as divest them of emotional overtones through exegesis. It is a self consciousness that seems excessive, solipsistic. But i cogitate on the human predicament through the piquancy of my own experience which i see, rather dismayingly yet with anodyne comfort, as part of the human lot. Fear of losing love, keeping an incessantly flagging interest propped with entertaining performances may be an engaging existential pastime but is also a relational necessity. Prevarication may exasperate me, dissembling may frustrate me , the very tawdriness of the performance, with its accompaniment of insincere effusiveness , fill me with self loathing. But i have seen the dangers of transparency. And frankly , guarding my inner life, even if its inwardness is a collective force of consciousness, despite its galling inadequacy, furnishes interesting vignettes of becoming, disembodied remnants of neuroses one observes and writes down. If this anxiety is fodder for deliberation and insight , with only one's lone testimony of one's perspicacity, then it is enough for now.