The way desire, expectations and preconceptions influence our thematic interpretation of relations, plays havoc with any possibility of an essential connection. The imaginative effect of passing time on memories is something that troubled and fascinated me since long and in my convoluted narratives I sought immunity from it; to what extent in that seemingly insignificant effort, had I been successful, nothing can judge that, because memory can’t be videoed today and re-watched tomorrow. But I never wrote about the inherent distortion in memory to begin with. Time only adds deception to what already is maligned version of events and relations.
Living in a postmodern world with the apparent enormity of available information, results in a confused juxtaposition of notions, about every relation we ever have, about every connection we ever build.
And what fabrications these are, all lovers, all relations, we build to fit our perfect definitions for them. We conceive them to suit ourselves, our complexes, our longings and our hunger. We rob them of their existence, and re-mould those all, over years from rough diagrams to our completed masterpieces and fit them in closets, on our coffee tables, on our walls and in our beds, so that we may look from afar and see what we want to see.
This momentary accomplishment brings about a joy and sense of belonging, which inherently remains as ephemeral as the artifacts we create, and when slowly and silently, the faces we created start to erode our conquests start to crumble into disappointments. Then we start the blame game, because at some level of subconscious, we knew that this house of cards was meant to fall apart. We pick up the pieces, sometimes worship those- the idols of our imaginations and cry for them, at other times we burn them up just to feel un-betrayed.
I’ve seldom felt betrayed in such a way, not because I didn’t create my own idols, but somehow I ended up feeling that I betrayed them. I longed for and then conceded the possibility of a connection that is not defined by the notions of ‘what and how it should be’. I wanted a connection in which I am not shamed by nakedness, my own and of whoever was before me. It’d seem almost delusional, but every passing day it feels that I have that now. Funny that a stupid urge arisen from query of a colleague about never doing a socially questionable act, leads me to the conclusion. I may be delusional again, but this time it at least seems real.
Have we done it? Instead of creating a mold to substitute for a connection, have we actually built a connection? The time seems to favour that, as over the years the banalities kept fading away, and we kept evolving to our basic naked selves and connection seems to be getting stronger.
I am happy.
It almost seems unlike me to write in descriptive narratives instead of theorizing OUR bits. But then again, a lot has changed in 3 years, hasn’t it ? :)