Antithesis: a continuingly strange love story

Antithesis: a continuingly strange love story

I quickly rise to put my thoughts on paper; well, at least figuratively. Paper is rarely used nowadays, at least for writing. At any event, to translate my thoughts into written words, words I can revisit, organize, analyze, remember ….

What a strange series of ideas, perhaps a memeplex gone rogue, breaking off from an evil cloud, a mere ember, the slightest trace of light but perhaps a light that can grow and burst into an all-consuming conflagration, and not the good kind.

Or is it merely a psychological mechanism reacting to my not getting everything I want, when I want it, in the manner in which I want. Are they insights or illusions, possibly both, or are they perhaps, most probably, merely delusions, … but still,


I lay in bed this morning reading a short story, a fantasy I thought to find overworked, tedious and tiresome, when slowly a subconscious revelation seemed to take form making sense of what has been senseless lately, a revelation concerning the person with whom I’ve been most personally and intimately involved on every important level, a revelation concerning that which has consumed me, overwhelmed and rendered me dull and seemingly without conviction, as if I’ve been drugged and hypnotized and robbed of independent will or volition.

The revelation, or is it merely a mirage, implied, …, no, that’s not the right word, … “cried to me” that the one “I feel I know I love” (a qualified positive if there’s ever been one), the one I believe to be my destiny as well as my past, the one I claim as the sundered part of my soul, is in reality it’s antithesis: a curse, a malevolent sending, revenge personified, the means to delude me and ensnare me?

“The signs have all been there”, or so my purported revelation claims, they’ve been shouting for my attention. Insidiously, it seemed to point out to me that even the one I love has joined in the clamor, first dropping hints that I ought to beware but then, seeking to calm and sooth the doubts engendered leaving me in a state of complete confusion.

“A curse?”

How incredibly foolish that sounds in my quasi-secular world view, how utterly ridiculous. How conceited to think that I matter enough to anyone or anything to justify the effort involved. It’s as though the mental deficiencies of the so called “birthers” have finally infected me. Too many conspiracy theories may be turning me into a Quixote. I know there are those among my friends who think so.

“But what if it’s true”, the echoing answer to every paranoid delusion.

Whose tool would she be anyway, and perhaps, more to the point, why? She has captured all my attention, my imagination and my aspirations, so much so that one might just wonder how, if not why. Can it be that it’s essential for her to divert me from some task, to utterly distract me and lead me away from my destiny, replacing that destiny with her labyrinth within?

Just now, considering these strange, remote and admittedly paranoid possibilities, I feel as though I were trapped in a hyperbolic fantasy novel, the kind I so much loved after finding Tolkien.

“But what if it’s true?”

How does she feel about it, or how would she feel about it if she knew. Does she know? Can she at least sense it? She’s been so blatant, almost as though she were toying with her power over me but seeking to stretch it towards the breaking point. Would she be happy to fail or is she merely arrogant in her dominion. Just how different is that from the way a woman empowered by love might act?

“But what if it’s true?”

What if she is not even aware of dark forces manipulating her, what if she’s an innocent pawn, what if she actually loves me, what if, what if, what if? Then everything would, in Jimmy Buffett’s prophetic phrase, be “my own dam fault.”

But why?

Or is it just that I tire of her self-absorption and seek a metaphysical justification for a very mundane phenomenon?

Irrationality and wisdom seem such abstract notions just now and so hard to differentiate. Damned Sancho Panza, where is he when I need him!

© Guillermo Calvo Mahé; Manizales, 2013; all rights reserved