Monday, November 23, 2015


It was strange , the moment when his companionable presence, largely experienced in my wakeful fantasies, become disruptive. I do not have a particularly lubricious imagination and the kinds of closeness i imagined were quite restful and unaggressive. I have always felt that intellectual and emotional compatibility are as important as physical proximity.

Which is why this shrinking of myself i experienced when i thought of him discomfited me. It wasn't as though he had changed in any perceptible way. Nor was it that i divined a pathology where hitherto i had only seen the sanguine. The world in my head had changed. Certain changes and alterations in self perception prompted a more involved way of understanding what i thought i was. The blueprint of becoming i aspired to, an amalgam of the de rigeur and the infinitely possible, had, for the moment, receded somewhat. As i went about life the substratum of darkness to which i was preternaturally alert became visible in my intersections with other people. I began noticing patterns, without and within, that hinted at unguessed depths . And i was not really interested in grasping at the possibilities those keys held , of something ineffable and  amorphous .

Meanwhile i responded to my diminishing interest in him with a redoubled demonstration of my regard. I shocked myself by locating a propensity towards ingratiation. What i was fighting was my instinctual withdrawal, tinged with repugnance and that disturbed me. Even he, whom i had revered, became a mosaic with his own attendant tenebrous aspects which i was subliminally aware of . But prone to examine my own projections i let the tides of indulgent self analysis capsize me. It translated into an intrinsic self loathing whose latent shafts had always cast a pall on the most joyous days. Battling what i perceived as my own narrow mindedness my protestations of love to him took on an increasing patina of obsequiousness. The irony is that by then the apocryphal nature of my propping up of him had become a conspicuous , immovable reality to me, and no longer a mere misgiving i could quash at will.

I know for a fact that my dissembling must have been ineffectual because the awareness of my baseness tainted the artistry of dissimulation. It did not seem to matter because in a certain dimension of my self clarity i had written off my fanciful love for him as something embarrassing.This drew into a sharper focus the extremity of my conscious prevarication. Somewhere i felt i was being kind in eschewing straightforwardness , the reasonableness of self censoring seeming expedient. But then i could just as well have remained silent, tried to close things off harmoniously, with least rancor and virulence. But i intuited his own vulnerability and self centrality which i gave short shrift to, merely pausing long enough to use them as a bulwark for rationalizing my putative probity. Had i considered these vulnerabilities at length i may have been kinder , considerate or just plain pragmatic.

In any case there has been a reestablishment of closeness, though makeshift. I have enmeshed myself in the moral vacuum of my immobility . And he too, it seems, is ensconced in the warm glow of what he interprets as my my regard, a regard whose ostensible veracity he has crystallized through my reiterations, repetition becoming, in its litany of saccharine, insincere expostulations , its own truth.

I  will carry on dating him , hoping that time, with all its indeterminacy , will spark off love and respect. At any rate, his lovemaking is pleasant enough. A deadlock within created a circumscription of unrealistic expectations but that very deadlock, in the light of its depredations, has now become a hope for something better. I recognize both the irony and rarity of this. And leave the rest to the caprices of destiny.

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