Friday, March 20, 2015


Aloneness, i find, or protracted absence of communication ,is only one dimension of solitude. Being with someone who is distant, tarries any possible sense of interchange. There is the body, with which a certain closeness is evinced and there is this gulf, which seems, at moments, to be both irreparable and unbridgeable.
Of course mutual parleying constitutes our conversations. Territories are staked, boundaries are mapped out. Concentring our respective beings is an engirdled taciturnity. So that while words are exchanged their import is disavowed. Or perhaps even negated. It is a state of affairs i have now become accustomed to. It seems de rigueur, part of a pattern of those panoplies of complicity and self deception which must, surely, be true of many of us.
It is difficult to pinpoint the moment of our estrangement. Perhaps we were never together at all. From my side i eschewed all self revelation fearing that i might become imprisoned in his aegis. Besides my vulnerabilities are propensities, often undiscerned by me, might draw out his insuperable antipathy. I alternated between these two conundrums. In the process i appeared to him in a convoluted form. Whether he divined my complexity ceased to bother me. What concerned me more was what he made of it.
My repressions were a forestalling of my censorious self excoriations. But by forestalling them i obliterated their significance. I was carrying on blandly, with a blanched countenance, withering inwardly while being unaware of it. This dissimulation i allude to was so interwoven with my other real life intersections that i deemed them unimportant, not meriting any analysis.
Even then i was discomfited by how he mirrored my distorted self image to myself. Acclimatizing to prevarication is easy but sustaining it, over a protracted interlude, more arduous. He reflected my dissembling to me by embodying, through his impenetrability, the futility and vaingloriousness behind my own. For a few years these unbidden, unprepossessing intimations strengthened my performance, deepened my conviction that concealment was necessary. Eventually the cracks began to show. My self containment, always putative, appeared to be illusory. Compensations seemed makeshift and tenuous.
At this point in time i am at a crossroads. I want to reveal to him my true being. But will he bear up against its tumultuous dark aspects. Moreover his own attendant self revelations might crystallize my own latent desire to walk out. The risks seem tremendous but so do the restitutions, envisaged theoretically, seem irrepressibly irresistible. Vacillating between these two positions is non negotiable . An action is called for. I can neither predict the consequences nor control their outcome. I remain uncognizant of what these might conceivably me. But a part of me threatens rupture and it is best to articulate my totality than dwell is self doubt. That is my conscious choice.

Wednesday, March 18, 2015


I used to watch out for him when he came home. I'd invent a pretext, thinking that my studied unguarded stance might disarm him. It rarely did. He knew i had waited and he felt pleased that it was so. I loved watching the sinewy ripples of his muscles under the starched work shirt. I loved feeling his raspy stubble under my fingers. They sent coruscations of erotic energy flowing through me. When my fingers were thus abraded my heart was liquefied. And i knew, in those instances, that i loved him.
The past seems inconceivable now. All i have are random snapshots that emerge unbidden. Sometimes a memory will submerge me in a wave of contrition and guilt and i will be laid low for months, recovering with gradual steps. Elsewhere the pleasure immanent in certain painful memories would, with their redolence of bittersweetness, be a deluge i would pleasurably surrender to. Which is why onanism, than intercourse, is my modus operandi.
I never told him about my regard for him. Possibly he divined it. In any case he didn't deem it fit to share any such information with me. It was his subtlety i really fancied, the many layers i could unearth and subsequently process and sift through. Had my attraction been a simple physical itch i might have slept with him and consummated my lust. It was the prospect of plumbing those myriad depths that was irresistibly attractive, suffusing me with irrepressible fervour and ardour which, though felt keenly, remained half articulated, hinted at, parenthetical, in the interstices of experience and its expression.
Rather sagaciously i induced in him ambiguity about my own motives. My alternate alterations of sensibility discomfited him. The confusion became, to him, the ineradicable fulcrum of our togetherness. I sensed that mystery was what he unconsciously sought. By retaining an element of embodying what he sought i pleased him. Would the knowledge that underneath this putative protean patina lay a masochism that was unassailable change anything?
As for me i was playing my own game. By insinuating my own contradictory registers i augmented his self doubt. At a certain level i was conscious that by inveigling this ambivalence i was , in a circuitous way, through the confirmation of his blueprint of me, crystallizing his own inadequacy. I enjoyed doing so. I could play out my variegated dissimulations knowing that i was making the best of both worlds. Ultimately when this dialectic of incertitude and self doubt which gnawed him within worked itself out to its calamitous conclusion i'd choose to negotiate this relationship on the territory i would chart for it. Witnessing his disintegration, meanwhile, is gratifying restitution.