My mind is a post-apocalyptic wasteland, riddled with disproportionate, cracked pavement ideas, and a consciousness like a filthy graveyard or derelict buildings, burning and crumbling. I’m plagued by the wrath of trauma and guilt, and the judgement of crude madness blaming me severely for pathos that isn’t always my own. I hear echoes of lines straight from The Fall by Camus telling me that I’m responsible for all the misery I’ve seen, caused or endured; asking me to confront my duplicity. I guess I’m hypocritical in many ways with only concave or convex mirrors giving me an out of shape reflection when I look within. But through it all, you hold me, and our insatiable passion for each other isn’t always delicate with a childlike charm. We often go through the throes of lovemaking – the pleasure and the pain – even when we’re not entwined, becoming one. Love isn’t just feeling, though without it, it’s just cold false zeal. Love is feeling backed by severe effort: a struggle to find in each other what’s unsayable, irresistible and luminous. A fight despite sweat and blood, and each deep moan when we’re finding our cadence magnifies this whole of togetherness. And angst and electricity which is our Chernobyl and power; inertia and fluidity which are our framed moments and fierce clawing of skin after our clothes are ripped off, creates a balance helping us move forward through November’s twilight. And perhaps one day Gomorrah will lie, reduced to ashes, but until then I’m thankful that I’m in love with you.
© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)