The spirit of the woods beckons, and I don’t know what my spirit animal is. Maybe I’m a wolf, tearing, torturing, destroying everything in my path, or maybe I’m a sheep, loving, caressing, obeying the right path and the right view. Maybe I’m a mixture of both – a wolf in sheep’s clothing or a sheep in wolf’s clothing. I might be an hypocritical pseudo-humble deceiver or an aggressive, try to push me motherfucker, teeth-baring, tender-hearted soul looking for that final shrine where I can rest after this tiresome pilgrimage.
I’ve broken the hearts of the women in my life, and they’ve broken my heart too – torn it into pieces, and I, scrounged and scrambled looking for the pieces, hoping I’ll fix myself. But regardless of who or what I am, I’ve realized that there’s no Messiah, no Cherubim or Seraphim singing, ‘Holy! Holy! Holy!’ I’m here – an anomaly, an idiosyncratic oddity getting by, never hoping on a miracle or the august canopy of dawn, but dodging knife throws each fucking day.
I’ve realized that it doesn’t matter what you are in these bleak, ashen woods riddled with debris and phlegm. All you need to learn is to survive, and if it means being a wolf, preying on the naïve, you do what you must, and if it means being a sheep, adhering to a strict code of legalism, you do what you must. God is dead, and the woods have no meaning. They’re just bark, branches, withered leaves, and engulfed by smog and you’re your entity.
© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)