I doubt I’ll be able to write an, ‘Oh that’s beautiful!’ Love poem again because grandiose delusions and ideas shaped and molded all my relationships and the idealistic vulnerability of my youth now sees Autumn. I’ve grown cynical and skeptical though I maintain a veneer of a man-child. If you really knew me, you’ll know that despite my obnoxious mannerisms and acutely harrowing impishness, I’m a bleak, nihilistic, distraught bastard and if given a chance to regain my innocence I’d never take it because I’d throw it away and plumb the depths of depravity in minutes. When in a somber mood I trace the path that brought me here, the regression from a maladaptive daydreamer to a hopeless romantic to a sour-faced pessimist to an utterly tortured nihilist. I can’t even look at nature without adding an ingredient of sardonicism to the broth of appreciation in my head. I guess you’ve wondered about that cry for freedom that tears through the poetry I write. Well, honestly, it’s a sham. I’ve grown comfortably uncomfortable knowing that freedom in my case is an illusion, and so, you can discard all those raw, boiling hot metaphors I use and just look me in the eye using my lines and call me a peddler of dishonesty. Go on. I know you want to throw that tomato and boo me off the stage. I’ll go quietly. I promise. I’ll just walk away with the red stains all over my shirt and hair, and the overwhelming stench possessing me. I’m so far from hope that I won’t even puke in the dustbin backstage.
© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)