Dearest xxxx

My Dearest XXX,

It is my intention to reside with you, for us to co exists in habitat, as we do in heart. To permanently swerve past each other in the kitchenette and resign ourselves to established seats when dining. To consign to routine our randomly anticipated desires and encroach on any mortared privacy. When we are supine and lazily caressing in perennial foreplay, I want the symphony of your grunts as I trample over your drowsy consciousness, making your opinion of my insatiable nicotine addiction heard; Or my carbohydrate saturated and high diuretic diet demonstrating itself in the interim of doze and dawn. You’re already aware, and have not withdrawn from our often torrid tryst in wake of my more intrusive ailments: the altercation on hurried strolls home to briskly avoid ignoble battles on the street; an indolent approach to sundries of pro-activity; relentless avoidance of household chores, the litany supersedes the limits of the written word, as do your own foibles.

I feel to continue to preside in each other’s lives and to proceed in the creation of an idyllically sentimental collection of memory would be farcical and quixotic if I did not reveal the extent of derangement breeding under my otherwise peaceful pallor. This may surprise, even perturb you. It is a testament to a deceptive charade the inscrutability of my capricious facade. You gaze upon this face and humbly presume any interpretation, a location of infinitely and unbeknownst clarity. It’s feasible, true, that you’d confront the possibility, that, in times of darkness, bar the obtrusive light from a street light window, my unwelcome consciousness, at the time of platitude and rest, could flurry with the hum of unwanted, trifle imaginings, of the less jocose importance and insignificance.

The trifle imaginings are the very root, and indeed route, to the crux of my own cognitive crisis: the axis based in the phenomenon both well known and widely experienced, De Ja Vu. If you can draw upon visual memory, please imagine the following situations:

Imagine me in those pair of glasses that do not quite compliment my facial shape, I’m reading and my lips are immeasurably muttering as I struggle to fully comprehend a multi-compounded sentence, eyes in a rarely interrupted volley back and forth. Then imagine my sudden silence and rictus in a social situation of two or more participants. Imagine in both these scenarios, my love, the captivation and the disassociation. The removal from involved conversation and when the volley of my eyes ceasing as I submerged into a silence which unseats your nerves, prompting bemoans of inertia in your aggressively growing paranoia. These instances must be explained to you as fully as I can manage, though I admit I write with nerves and reluctance: this is the tentative final card on our tower, I am tremulous and hesitant.

I learnt several of the words used in this letter in a book about darkness, apt for the mental stumble I am now going to courageously describe. When reading the book and often, other novels, magazines, poetry, instructions, advertising slogans and descriptive chapters. Underneath reams of grammatical idiosyncrasies and enrapturing syntax I sometimes see not a sepia and worn page, I see a haunting reminiscence. It’s familiarity of candid, uncanny recollection. My shadow enlivens and whispers in my ear, imbibing me with a sense of an impossible foreknowledge. With no soothsaying abilities to speak of, or notions of prophetic  nuances the whispering false first memory of the text makes the page an old wound, not healed but rotted, ruined and abrasive with scar tissue. The impossible familiarity causes me due worry. What illuminating fluorescent fakery causes such a conniving shadow to appear?

Less venial is the second instance I requested you envision. Why do I recoil and distance my often dry input from conversations from time to time? Because I become reticent to enter a dialogue that may end in a spiteful, affronting altercations between even my most loyal and stoic of friends. This forbidden foreknowledge presents itself, causing more anticipation and trembling anxiety. An interlocutor will utter a phrase, an assertion, a menial phatic phrase of nothingness and it will spark a memory. The same conversation. The same sitting positions and the very same attire, the very same wine chosen for a balance off affordability, alcohol content and flavour. And I falsely remember myself responding obnoxiously, shamefully. I submerge in the shame of such a dilatory and negligent response. The interlocutors, my dearest friend who find solace in my company and comfort in my non-judgemental dulcet presence: I enrage them them with my insensitivity and lambast any feeling of security. It’s heinously and perceptively ill-fated. They speak and I recall acting in a manner subversive to polite. A due consequence as I relive what has less credence than a fascmitude of a dream is silence.

It has been suggested by the more corrosive faculties of thought that this is a paranoia manifesting itself. Ah, but I remind the other voices, the intellectualisation of the matter warrants concern for its pure existence. It is my fear that one day I shall interrupt any intention and be spurred by the actual manifestation itself. There is a figure standing behind me. I flick my head in surprise that he is there. He exists as a beam of light reflecting of the watch face next to me, the half -empty tumbler. The corner of my eye will be attracted to this bouncing light as if a fly or wasp were to suddenly fly past. If before existence there is nothing the knowledge of a purported or mistaken existence is surely finding purgatory. It is soaring unbound in the stratosphere and after a brief distraction to look back and find the Earth gone. Emptiness where a whole reality existed.  A fertile ground of living, breeding hubris, contempt and potential.

How can one live firmly in the interactions and corporeal facts when they seem pre-ordained and there is a film of this potential – the stolen earth – is a scintilla over it. In the situation the next verb is undetermined. On occasion, I sense the scintilla and it is a detrimental action, an over-egged word, a humiliating utterance.

can imagine this spectre coexisting and attempting usual functionality you would presume correctly the difficulties that arise. The struggle of knowing too well that there will come a point when this anxiety, this foolish remembrance of the never-occurring will become a reality and due insanity will take its course.


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