I’m just a lonely shit, and all I do is smoke, get fat, drink cheap, sediment-ridden wine, take my antidepressants, drink my cough syrup and trip on a downer now and then. I live in a lonely shitty apartment in an overcrowded neighborhood where the traffic flits around like mosquitoes, where people have lives and jobs and pay the rent and fuck. I mooch off my parents and make demands, and then write pop-existential rants. Women don’t give me a second glance anymore because my paunch is repulsive. I go, unshaven, unkempt and with uneven hair to the cheap, shitty little cigarette shop and buy a pack of Marlboro every day. I then binge drink energy drinks and coffee and when a rush of mania overwhelms like a fierce gale (allow me to use a slightly archaic, poetic term) and destroys my ramshackle consciousness and I’m left with the subconscious detritus that cyber-junkies and video game connoisseurs who play RPGs like they’re eating caviar have, I write and write and write some more. Just give me my pills – red, blue, white, and I’ll exist in my shitty space devoid of the sun, moon, stars and the rain. Just give me my booze and alter my consciousness; make me fucking hazy; make me fucking lazy; make everything fucking hazy; make everything fucking lazy. Go on then, give up on me. I’m a Bipolar freak after all with a mind sharp with lunacy like a Tungsten needle. Go on then, throw me in the void without saying goodbye because greetings are overrated like cheesy Hallmark Cards. Go on then, beat me because I can’t fight. I’ll just cower like a kitten trapped by a bunch of Alsatians. I can’t scratch, claw or bite. So, go on then, stereotype me and say I threw away my existence, and take pleasure as your words cut right through wine-soaked reverie and I’m no longer walking rosy boulevards, but clawing my way up the seven stages of Hell. Go on then, finish what you started. I gave up on everything, and I’ll just kneel waiting for your shitty sword to do its shitty job.
© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)