I cannot fix the past, and myriad horrors await me, but I still haunt my castle of delusion, unwilling to change things. Each chamber in this monstrosity that my mind has created over years of maladaptive dreaming contains either an illusion of the future or fabricated memories. In one, I’m an accomplished writer, in another I’m bedding a beautiful woman, in the third I’m an accomplished musician, and these are just the fantastical tomorrows. The chambers of false pasts ignore the hate, the abuse, the bullying and see me lying on green pastures where a lilting wind caresses my features or replace yesterday’s whiskey with a pen and a finished sonnet.
I don’t know what’s worse: the imagined realities themselves or the insight that tells me I’m trapped in a chimera but gives me no hope.
© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)
For What Pegman Saw