It has taken me a long time to get comfortable with what I write, and I’ve realized that writing to please somebody or even caring about what anybody thinks is not the solution. My life doesn’t parallel my writing, but perhaps few of my ideas do. And human nature is something that evolves each day, and often, stressful situations either make or break us. If you’re going to let suffering get the better of you, then it’s pointless really. You’ll remain resigned and sure it creates great art, but I’m honestly for separating the art from the writer. I don’t write for anybody, and yes, when I read something I judge. We all do, but I’ve realized that the best way to avoid negative energy is to not read, and so, I quit reading blogs I’m not fond of anymore. The blogosphere is full of all kinds of predators and people who need lives, or people who are leading broken lives, trying to get a hold. But the thing about transcending this is to write about what you want to without letting them get to you, and not bothering about followers or likes. They’re entitled to their judgments, but I honestly don’t care anymore. I just write man. I don’t detest myself, or my words anymore: Some of it is dark, some of it is sorrowed, some of it is horrific, and some of it is just nonchalant. But how can you possibly know me without meeting me in person? And I’m not here to write for any of you, or to counter what you say. I’m done with that. Hell, if I don’t like your style or content, I’ll find another blog, and trust me, WP has millions. Stressful situations often push me towards religion, even though I’m a nihilist, and I guess that’s an epic paradox. Is God dead? Well, he isn’t present in my life honestly, and I’m done with my struggle with Christianity. I’m irreligious and plan to stay that way. Like I said, you either rise above a situation or succumb to it, and it doesn’t need months of soul-searching. You just do it. Am I Bipolar? Sure. But I don’t want your empathy or sympathy. You cannot empathize with a life you’ve never led. It’s like saying, “Yeah I understand what being in a concentration camp is like because I envisioned it,” and it’s ludicrous. And yes, there are definitely some sick people who live out their twisted art, but to hell with them. You’re entitled to your beliefs, creeds and systems, but don’t expect me to walk your path. I write for me, and if you want to read, go ahead, and stay kind, and I’ll stay kind too. I’m in my space with my books, cigarettes and coffee when I write. And writing is not my religion. I have no religion. And yes, I can be emotional, but time has taught me to move from petty squabbles to direct my emotions into a story of sorts. And the writing process is not something that hypomania always induces. Sometimes I’m very nonchalant and write a sorrowed post. I feel no agony or misery at all. I just write. And sometimes I’m calm and write one about horror. And sometimes I’m angry and write a philosophical one. So writing in no sense parallels my life, and I’m finally comfortable, reading the greats and just writing for me.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

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I’m just living my life reading books, and a miasma
of angst rises from the line breaks, chastising and
culling whatever remains of my will, disorienting
an already hazy mind, a despairing ugly
nebula, tortured both: objectively and
subjectively, I look everywhere and I see hate,
and then look within and see nothing different,
and I can’t help but ask why I soldier on when
I’m a waste of space, a postgraduate dropout,
third wheeling with apathy and darkness,
sitting in an empty, forsaken theater
of black chimera,
a bipolar mood swing, fucked up,
shell of a man, wandering into
a kaleidoscope of emotion, a chain smoker
with bluing lips and a tongue with nicotine
patches, like a carpet with grotesque stains,
mooching off my parents, sending
Facebook friend requests to a hundred
people and ending up with
8 plastered on the damn wall, unable to live
with a past of intense trial, tribulation, and
trepidation, knowing agape and losing it
for reasons unexplained, and then something
harsh, severe, cutting through skull from the
outside, and nights spent roaming the streets
in ‘penance’, enduring the rain, stepping on
thorns, trying to gouge my eyes out,
and then coming back only to know that
it never left me, it split the curtain
between this world and the next and
spoke, frightening and torturing me,
and they think I’m a lunatic, and
they’re right, but I can’t shake off my neurosis
or psychosis, my panoramic delusions, so
far-reaching, and I need prescription to
survive, to get up and start a day, let alone
live, and I’m often catatonic,
and desire a wall of one’s own
to rest against,
and so, yes, in that sense, “Dieu est mort,”
because it’s pointless when you’re hung,
drawn and quartered, outside the gates of a
semblance of sanity, while a choir
of angry demons watch, each time you go near
faith, and so I apologize for all the hurt caused
because of this rage, this inner crucifix,
and I can’t give anyone anything except these
lines, and though no one listens, or hears my
cry, they’re here, etched, so that one day when
I’m gone they’ll read for whatever it’s worth.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

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I’m the man in the iron cage, the pilgrim with an unrepentant, unyielding heart, the prophet who has regressed into a poet with anguish breaking through bone, and then skin, the tendrils tying my tongue, muting my real howl and creating a soft shriek which they consider beautiful. I’m the Kierkegaardian stereotype, a freak tortured and tormented by his panoramic paranoia, a twisted, fucked up birds eye view of skulls and enemies, of corpses punching keys and hate, and I can’t see a horizon. I’m the label of everyone’s disgust, an animal in an asylum which sensibly speaks, but in alliteration—the zookeeper’s delight. “Look now, here’s Mr. Bipolar. Hysterically jump or flat line, it’s your prerogative, but make sure you entertain, because they’ve paid with their time and energy. Be Quick!” But the more I rattle, the more they rile. The more I lie, the more they cry, until I met you, unlike them, with a heart: Not expecting a trick or a treat, but submerging me with true love, and that wealth of emotion that I only projected, I now ingest, and sure, this isn’t an archetypal love poem, or even one entirely avant-garde, but this is a me slowly catching slivers of you, finding their way, and placing themselves in the aridity within, and piece by piece, the jigsaw rises, and we both don’t know what the final picture will be, but I wait patiently, although long-suffering is my weakness. I endure, although I want to fight. I stay still even though it’s a terrible itch and I don’t have an Avil to soothe it, and put me in a low high. I reason with impulse, and my mind is a yin-yang of darkness and light. And this isn’t balance. Whoever said it was is wrong. And I bite a piece of wood to soothe my self-destructive tendencies like nicotine cravings. I will not protest. I will not give in, and I’ll break the figurative here, and say that I deleted my hate poetry, and only kept ones that tackle ideas or convey a personal belief, and those beliefs evolve by the day, from romanticism to hard ground to anti-virtual romance and anti-cyber bullying to anti-transcendentalism to anti-religion to a positive nihilism, but that’s just a part of me that I’ve explored, the rest I leave to you. You were there this morning, and I’ll meet you come eventide, and I don’t expect anything surreal or mystical, anything that’s beyond or esoteric. I just expect you to place another piece, as the puzzle slowly moves to its solution.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

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We wake, you and I, and just a thought of your
now no longer jaded eyes, loosens metaphors,
inching their way to the tip of my tongue,
falling slowly like the purple flowers
of a Wisteria, a soft cadence, and yes,
morning has broken, a light haze creeps
through the gently parted beige curtains,
but though nature’s delight beckons me,
urging me towards a makeshift Eden,
I’m just thankful you stayed,
and what are words but syllables
strung together? What is language, figurative
or literal, but just something planted on a
page to embody meaning? What is a
poetic technique but another way of
expression? And I don’t need to write and
write, weave and weave, build and build, and
create and create to tell you how much
you mean, how much all of you speaks
more and more each day, and words
spoken, unspoken, written, unwritten
will never give you justice for never
giving up on me, and so, I kiss back this
time, unlike the last when I walked away,
and you aren’t my muse or inspiration,
but deeper than trivial terms,
but I write this anyway at the break of dawn,
at 5, while you peer over my shoulder,
and that unnerves me because I’m afraid
of giving you too little, but it also emboldens
me because I’m here with you in your
apartment, and that matters much more
than art ever did.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

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As I return home, from the library, the aura of knowledge replaced by the scent of nothingness, enveloping, engulfing and emancipating me from the unnecessary, unwarranted sorrow we fashion our lips to taste, I see a group of hooligans trying to hurt a man; maybe they want to scare him and instill in him a sense of, “Push us, and we’ll destroy you,” or perhaps his fate’s already sealed, and I wonder, ponder about the man’s anguish as they approach. He’s smoking a cigarette and smiling, but his hands shake. Does he think his feigned arrogance will save him from blows and kicks? Will his fear turn into a desperate need for mercy? I know he’ll do his best to endure, and then when it’s over, exclaim, “This too has passed!” Some of you might ask, “Why didn’t you do something?” Well, this happens regularly, and I’ve seen men shutting down coffee shops with vengeance as the police looked on. And one man cannot fight a system of depravity, corruption and injustice. But maybe I over imagined the scenario. I think they’ll leave him alone after a few slaps, unless he’s foolish enough to goad them. And that’s where freedom from neurosis, paranoia and delusion lies. All you need to do is predict. If a+b=c, and a is your irritability at a vicious circumstance biting you like a rabid dog, and b is the cause of the circumstance, then you adding both will only cause needless strife or c. And so, you change the equation completely: Sublimate your anger, avoid the root of the circumstance, find another cause, or something else to uphold, and soon you’ll also exclaim, “This too has passed!” And that’s life, and if you want to use a psychological term for it, go ahead. I walk on, and see the football field where I played when I was 22. Nobody plays there anymore, and I wonder why. A part of me just wants to wander into it, but nostalgia has no use, just like make-believe tomorrows or an imagined eternity. The only reality is that you’re an inconspicuous individual touching now, and you’re handed the arsenal of today, to destroy or create. I’ll admit there was a point when in anger, I destroyed, using art that’s only meant to create, but liberated from the chaos of yesterday, by the lucidity of the senselessness of anger, I burned and deleted artistic vengeance, and found hope. And it isn’t God, or a person, or beauty that pushes me forward. No, it’s just the now and the time I have. I walk on and nearing my apartment, I see a house in strife: Husband and wife, fighting, both playing the blame game, and I wish they would realize that life isn’t worth petty squabbles and arguments. It just is. And when you’re cornered, ask yourself, “What’s the worst a foe can do?” And sure, they can push you, break you, crush you, but once you know what triggers you or them, and walk away, they’ll hallucinate while you sleep soundly. And your will is yours, never subject to bondage, unless you let it, and once you reach that stage, you’ll welcome Death himself and dine with him, and kneel while he wields his sickle. I finally reach home, smoke a cigarette, pen down something, and sleep.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

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If God exists then he’s unmitigated wrath or silence
unseen, unheard, while fractured, twisted finitude
laments its bondage, or gives in to violence
amenable yet bellicose, quiet yet untrained: the tune, lewd

played by the pauper, piper – the poet, tiger both
a haunting shriek that seeks to slay, eviscerate skin and will
not listened to by a king, while we bleed; lips froth
what is ‘religion’, ‘science’ but a fundamentalist thrill?

you’ll get no answers from sects, doctrines, creeds or faith
which is why I’m no Christian, Hindu, Muslim, Buddhist or Sikh
then who are you man, prodding mystery? bones, wraith!
anomalous I am, not writhing in abyss, or on peaks

creating make-believe dreams, and since you ask, I ask, answer!
Now! Bullying & cyber hate? Abuse & rape?
Beheading & frays? War & terror? Shots & babes?
Chernobyl & Auschwitz? Disease & death? Disaster & blur?

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

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I spoke to sister yesterday, and she said, “She’s having existential problems, and mooching off it and writing dark poetry,” and I was mind blown. When I was your age, I lay on the green grass with Cynthia or was it Emilie? It doesn’t matter; anyhow, I lay and smoked a pack of Marlboro, looking at pink sunsets, and rode my motorcycle, and feasted on sumptuous beef, pork, and squid. Now, paunched, with arthritis, and cancer ridden, coughs, I mean gracefully older, smoking a pipe, and reading ‘Silence’ by Shusaku Endo; you must forgive an old man his Freudian sl….damn it! I mean, forgetfulness. So, I recently tried this Facebook thing you youngsters are crazy about, and I couldn’t figure out what a bloody timeline is. Is this a public journal of sorts? Status messages? Bah! What the hell is that even supposed to mean? I’m old, I mean, young at heart. Does that qualify as a status? No wonder you kiddos writhe in agony. It gave me a migraine, I mean, a mild headache, and I deactivated it. That last term made me think of my days during the war when I had to deactivate things far worse to prevent a comrade from dying. And now, this whole nonsense of the Internet makes me want to deactivate, I mean, release myself from the burdens of life, with my newly discovered telepathic powers. But the problem is I prefer the comforts of my hospital bed, fuck, I mean, well furnished home. Damn! When will this stop! Sorry. Anyhow, so I need a sidekick, and fighting crime was always on my bucket list, I mean, things to do. So, I’ll unnerve the idiots by placing thoughts in their head, while you go around and beat them black and blue. Whaddaya say? Well, don’t think about it, because that’s all you youngsters do these days, and join me. I hope to hear from you soon.

Much love and light (I hear that’s fashionable these days)

Your Uncle,

Charles Edward III

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

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