I absolutely despise drama, and looking back, wonder why I manufactured so much. What motivated my angst or depression to sink into such abominable depths, where self-tortured souls, writhe in the agony they cause, bellow after piercing themselves, shriek and scream after setting themselves on fire? Give me a quilt, an absolutely dark room, the cold, with curtains shut, and I’ll sleep soundly now. Even the Mysterium Tremendum won’t haunt anymore. I’ll feel the still, quietude of a black lake, the slow dark waters, and I’ll finally know water just like the air of being and non-being, the fire that scares and frightens unwanted muses or muse hunters, or the earth with pieces of wood: raw, overripe and creative. And then I’ll seek total solitude – a place away from sad violins, which now mean nothing, or claws on my heart, which is now made of unbreakable metal, or the malodorous anathema that now rests in a small place in the back of my mind, frightened by my will, and terrified that soon I’ll wash it clean, which I will. And then I’ll leave the cave and know the light, look at it in its clear brightness, and let it envelope and absorb me, and what’s left to say or teach or preach then. Those chained will stay just the way they are, and I’ll remain separated from them in the clear, lucid hush. The time nears, and before transcendence, each iota of a self that once held mind, body and soul, and those of others who’re trapped will try that one last resort in desperation. But I feel myself drifting away already, the shower washing away the last traces of old grime, and once I meet water, I leave, while they’ll remain lost.
© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)