Disintegrated Self

Attachment to self. Detachment from self. And growing between them, indifference. T.S.Eliot completes his three conditions, conditions looking alike yet differing completely, flourishing “in the same hedgerow”. (Little Gidding) Our self, the self we, you and I have. Don’t we, at times, get afraid of the shadows of the self we cower in? We now have allowed, majestically, the shadows to choke the true self, our very own, to stay unbridled, in that murky prominence. Within it’s exteriority, the self searches aimlessly the consolations, the contours of questions it nonchalantly negated in it’s self-revelation. You have intellectual emptiness, ruthlessly muffling the consoling cobwebs, symbolic of unmet interiors. Jaded self walks with reveries of escape towards pyramids standing firm, queering the uprooted, self-controlled concealments. Don’t fear. Go to the instantaneous frames of our sagging memory. Futile alienation, awfully busy. This oasis of perfect self where we look at the definition of logics of illogical judgments, has started seeking extraordinary pleasures in drooping, known unrealities. Uprush of what we are never comfortable with and what we have never been uncomfortable with come galore, our morbidities are self-swinging between the limits we neither defined nor redefined. Doddering within us is the desire and it’s unrecognizable destructiveness. Self- choosing to dissolve into it. What lords over what? Inconspicuous subterranean turmoil, all over, smiles, peevishly, at the anguish of psychic contents, their residues, disintegrating our whole self, leaving us in ecstasy of a veiled lurch. Through an array of unarranged questions, history has adjudged, as part of incoherent deliria, the ebbs and the flows we measure with our massy self, disjunctively. Self relaxes amid fetishistic enthrallment of the relaxing anxieties, we with our imprisoned self look into the meanings in the captive arenas, we once determined for the survival of our self. Your strife is not hidden; emanating from the clotted boundaries the self never enters. Still, you don’t talk of it. We prefer to sit by the window of our self and stare in the dark, unable to make out: “Which is worse: The dark inside, or the darkness out.” (\".......\"Joseph Brodsky) ?…..? inimical, inimical to the self, that has been so unfaithful, so traumatizing to us strives alone, distracting us all from what we have tackled all along. Whose shadows are we trying to trace in ?…….? In order to get our true self back. The homeless question continues.