We founded this place on the scraps of truth we foraged for and found. Now, the detritus is present everywhere and a shrill metallic voice shrieking, ‘Death to freedom of speech,’ echoes and sadly resonates with every wannabe postmodern zombie, punching a badly written, unpunctuated bizarre love WhatsApp message to his girlfriend, who’ll dump him in a year’s time to fulfil her parent’s choice of an arranged marriage.

When will we learn?
When will we undress dogmatic tradition and bathe in the non-conformity of the blue, unconditional moonlight?
When will we hug true hedonistic liberty and not pretend with an ostentatious sensuality that parades itself to an audience watching the computer screen with bloodshot eyes, the red veins throbbing, waiting for a red heart or some other emoticon – a hopeless thirst for cyber validation?

The radio’s static with a grating, aggressive buzz like the sound of myriad bees paying homage to the Creator but we’ve grown complacent with our scrappy facades and fear permeates through each iota of our being when we think of standing up and starting a revolution, turning blood in the veins a sickening yellow and making eyes dart to and fro – ever restless, never determined, driven, decided.

I feel forsaken and abandoned here –
In this decrepit place of angst and rage
When younger, I did dream of neon skies
And all I see now wants me ever near
A foreign graced soft land where I’ll rest and age
A world far from disorder and cool lies.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

15 responses

    • I didn’t notice the passion when I wrote it to be honest with you, but your comment has made me reconsider the meaning of the piece. Thank you so much for such an insightful comment.

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