What I’ve become

My father wasn’t a drunk, but I am. He expected a ‘Heil Hitler,’
after each bruise, choke or slap, but I don’t want veneration,
praise or worship. Sure, I’m grandiose at times, making this
hard, granite floor a lush, spirited Eden, before
the cold suddenly seeps in, chilling flesh and bone. I drink
to feel, to numb the pain within, to retreat into an inner
smoky bar where Brad Mehldau plays and I’m just
absorbed by Nirvana or The Beatles played differently. Jazz stayed with me,
perhaps before I even discovered it – the acquired taste of
a kaleidoscope of emotion and a world of odd-time swirls and
notes arranged out of sequence. I drink to try to forget, to
go back, not to sickening hands or words hurled, but to worlds
created both out of Eros and Thanatos, out of ashes and baptisms,
out of blood and communion, out of desire and despondency,
and I guess that’s my inner tortured child who’ll never find a way out,
but who’ll still give you words that you can discard or cherish.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

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11 Comments

      1. The first line… I can’t explain fully, but it drew me in. The honesty of it. I really appreciate honesty in writing, especially when it relates to reality of life. So, thank you!

  1. Reblogged this on SPO_OKY and commented:
    I appreciate this honesty, more than any other kind of writing. This moved me more than I can adequately explain…

      1. You’re welcome. I try not to over-reblog, but occasionally something touches me and I feel compelled to.

  2. I agree, the first lines are stunning, heart breaking.
    i often feel that any words i say will trivialise the impact. But the way you weave and articulate is quite spellbinding at times.

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