A non-requiem for purpose

My nonchalant non-mourners,

We’re gathered here not to mourn this corpse now entombed in this black coffin. She’s called purpose, and she led many-a-romantic astray with her asinine delusions of Autumn, which led to Keatsian odes to an inconsequential season where leaves fall, and mud-caked boots crush them. She led many existentialists astray while they fell prey like rotting meat to vultures to Kierkegaardian panaches of absolute grounding in an enigmatic, absolute sovereign. They preached with flair about Abraham reaching abstract faith, but in using that very term ‘abstract’ they lost themselves to vague, petty obscurantisms. She led many-a-tragic comic astray by placing them on a pendulum swinging like a rapid cycling Bipolar Mood swing between epiphany and catastrophe. They cackled while the fire crackled and scuttled like crabs over a need for an esoteric doctrine of vivacious gnosis when the bulbs dimmed and finally shattered. Then they wailed and mourned putting mongrels to shame. She led many-a-clergyman astray by self-deluded prophesies of raptures, or raptures of ecstasy in the seventh heaven where seraphs and cherubim serenade a Yahweh who’s long forgotten us. These men were so enamored and seduced by her magnetism that they stood with spines straight like a ramrod and spat while they gave the masses their puritanical opium. They did not spare the rod because they feared abandoning her, which is why we have drug-addicts, misfits, and lecherous pornographers who are the sons of fire and brimstone. She led many-a-drifter astray casting him in a womb of existential throes and then delivered him, a stillborn. Thus, emotionally castrated the wanderer became a voyeuristic eunuch and in turn – consumed by a mad bloodlust – a pervert, given to coprophilia and absurd, bizarre notions of violent BDSM without substance. So, we bury her without a chant, a litany or a dirge, and we can finally say in cold blood that man is free.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

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