Friday, January 30, 2015


The mirror gives me a lurid representation of me. The luridness, observably, is my own aegis manufacturing or rather constructing the sordid patina of luridness. Expiation is beyond me, as is any effort, however self induced, in however involuntary a manner, to cohere conflicting emotions. There is the inescapable reality of what supervened and my ineffectual attempts at understanding. Beyond a point, even the effort to understand is relinquished. I submit and surrender to the flux and the mess. How could i not, given that i brought it into being.
He is unforgiving. It is both inevitable yet inexplicable as to why this is so. As i explained to him in all honesty my little rendezvous was pure accident. For all the psychobabble he utters, with such unequivocal conviction, i assumed, though erroneously, that he would apprehend the helplessness of my predicament. What i viewed as an aberration he imbued with irrecoverable finality. Given the provisionality of humaneness which he assiduously asserted this intractable grasping at tenuous certainties and crystallizing them as inviolable was discomfiting. And he left. Though he also left, with his departure, a desideratum of unarticulated ratiocinations, unexpressed regret and unexonerated forgiveness.
So this reflection i see, showing me my pallid face, my incipiently greying beard testifies to the incontrovertibility of time's passage. When i was with him, him being half my age, i thought i was arresting time, or suspending its invariable continuation. I proliferated my being laterally, diminishing my growing mortality with a protean traversing of a countenance whose unsullied youthfulness rendered me less older. All this was psychological, you see but the mind has an uncanny ability to not only distort but internalize that distorted reality by creating a carapace of authenticity which requires, more than willed belief, the suspension of an awareness of its intrinsic incongruity. In obliterating in my consciousness the anomalous condition i bethought myself as inhabiting i constructed another anomaly. I thought that the accoutrements of youthfulness would congeal into my conscious mind the state of being my unconscious desired so heartrendingly. But the same unconscious which wanted the years rolled back plunged me headlong into advancing years whose irrevocable consecutiveness, compounded by my loneliness, would guarantee a lonely death.
But i must eschew these misgivings, curtail the inner demon whose fortuitous reconfiguring, necessitated by the expediency of external reality, ensures for me a submergence into its machinations that even wilfully i would be unable to circumvent. I need another partner. I have a trim figure and agreeably muscular pectorals. With sufficient industriousness i can embody the fantasy my interlocutor devises for himself.
It might also seem strange that having unravelled in the aforementioned account i am seeking to reassemble myself into a regressive state of unknowingness. I cannot predict whether the result would be successful. At any rate there is no harm in trying. I perform, therefore i am. It is because i perform that i exist.

Sunday, January 25, 2015


Being of an exegetical disposition i plumbed myself. I knew that , given the bountiful nature of inner processes of consciousness, i was bound to discover something meaningful with full, rather fulsome knowledge and gratitude for the nebulous in life which
though of itself unknown and unknowable nevertheless sheds light on certain of its processes and mechanisms wherein a supercharged surcharged self consciousness that is also conscious of itself ruminates plaintively on how to process the viscosities and oleaginous coruscating whorls that memory dredges up and to communicate this flux, this flow and metamorphosis in the most seamless manner with the full cognizance of the fact that
'yes, i am working on that huge tome of philosophy'
'Do you think you can achieve your goal?'
'At least i hope to try'
Meanwhile external reality betokens. It is circumscribed and oppressive. It presents monochrome as nuance. It dresses up the unvaryingly boring as novel. It transforms complexity into simplicity. It seduces one into believing in its reductionism. It is external and therefore incomplete. It is unheeding of the inner life.
What is terrifying is the subsumption of the inner expediently to an exiguous outer.
Inner.outer. Man. Woman.Self. other. Consciousness. Awareness.
In their interstices and ambiguities lies a fluid kernel.
Arabesques that stud the mosaic and commingled pell mell with variegated wholeness metamorphosing the constituents into a kaleidoscope wherein divagations ratiocinations dreams mingling with effluviums excrescences and residual subterrene of the hinterland of experience amalgamated to temporality diffused by memory and subsequently reconstituted repose efflorescently penumbrally iridescently crepuscularly irrefragable depthlessness unfathomed yet stippled by luminescent mnemonics that irradiate.
In the fulcrum lies the kernel. In the kernel the essence. In the essence the inner. In the inner the truth. In the truth being. In being becoming. In being and becoming the heart of things. In the heart of things the soul of man/woman.