Symbols and the truth

The moon with her muted, ashen, post-apocalyptic light partially illuminates my path, enveloped with clinkers of despair and hankering – an off-time, off-tune sequence with a murderous coda. I pass withered Jacarandas, hoping that I’ll find you after this battered car or after walking past the smog that coats the splintered sidewalks. I look yonder and see the mist coated peaks with snowflakes cascading like a haiku: The five syllables of a wintry crimson, followed by seven syllables saying that I love you with fierce, dark pain and the final five touching the ground screaming, ‘Summer seems far off.’ I dust off the motes of purgatory that cling to me and keep walking though I look grey and everything looks like cigarette ash. I fucking love you, and ask myself if the recollections and echoes of memories now stagnant, buzzing like flies over rotten meat are worth the effort. But I’ve flipped this coin so many times before, over the years and regardless of where it ends, I can’t rid myself of you. You’re the green, vivacious wine that creeps over each broken, disjointed wall that personifies a fractured me. When we made love, did you only think of the now and completely displace the after? Was it something transient, and did the nirvana to the rhythm of that soft snare, slowly building up with the double bass and tom-toms and hi-hats mean nothing to you? No, I’d like to think differently because you’re like me, loving and pouring each ounce of affection on the other. I often think if I need an exorcism, strapped, while the priest chants and rids me of you, but having loved you with the unmitigated desire of the Flame of the Forest, dancing to each breeze of togetherness, having kissed you and slowly sliding down your neck and gently biting you with unparalleled sorrow and the pleasure of maniacal ardor, having slowly and fiercely found our cadence on that peak I finally met after a long taxing sojourn makes each moment worth it, and gives me a plethora of new dimensions to explore, hoping one day they’ll be mine.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

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18 responses

  1. I love what you said, that every piece of art evolves and takes on its own life and becomes something altogether it’s own thing as we work on it. That’s so true. Sometimes I, like you, wonder if I need an exorcism. To rid myself of the memories. To let my self die and resurrect to become someone completely brand new and different, evolved, than what I started out as, what I saw myself as in the beginning…. much as our art, wouldn’t you say?

    • Thank you! And yeah I feel that way often. I wish I could erase memories, and the hurt I’ve caused, and have endured. But I believe in fate, and I think everything works this way for a reason. So I’m split between both perspectives.

      • Thank you so much! But I’m sure I won’t fare well in a conventional IQ test. I’m very right brained and abstract thinking appeals to me. I’m also very impulsive and absent minded. I think I’ll do well if there was a test for emotional intelligence. It’s my intense emotional experiences that have given birth to insight and a different way of viewing the world. Which is why I’m drawn to your writing and other’s who wear their hearts on their sleeves. Plain intelligence or knowledge without insight and intuition fails, and I think you know that too, which makes you very smart too. The scientists will disagree though lol!

      • Thanks! I was a little nervous to be honest. And then I just took a few shots of Brandy and decided to just go for it, and just say something. I heard your voice the other day in that fantastic reading. I don’t think I’m good at reading my pieces aloud, but it definitely gave me a little courage to speak, and not type stuff out all the time. And so, instead of reading my piece aloud, I experimented a bit, and basically voiced my thoughts.

      • Your voice is soothing and calm. And you had this SoundCloud picture of a very serene, picturesque place, and that added to the allure. If you really want to, you can read my work aloud. Trust me, I’ll stutter doing that even if I’m inebriated. You’re naturally good at it. The problem with me is that my thought process, my writing and my speech are always in sync. So, I can’t focus on reading something aloud, when my mind is somewhere else lol.

      • I wish I had more of that here. It’s just apartments and industries and shopping malls where I live. My only walk is to a ramshackle cigarette shop or a liquor store, where I settle for tough Indian liquor because something like JD is ultra expensive. You should try Old Monk if you get the chance. Drink it raw after refrigerating it. Trust me, that’s one of the best Indian experiences. A lot of folks come here for the culture, but here’s the irony: There are quite a few of us who aren’t in sync with the culture at all. We might actually fare better in the West.

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