I’m satisfied, floating in a dead sea of solitude like a leaf drifting in the breeze. The sky above me is a shade of crimson, and I have no wars to win and nothing to prove anymore. Gone are the days when I roamed sordid street after filthy lane searching futilely for something to grasp. Our lives often resemble noise rock on loop – the chaos and the cacophony on repeat. A loud bang, followed by a jarring screech and then a nightmarish thud, forming an unholy trinity that’s a baggage carousel on which fate places us for what seems like an eternity. But that’s over now. Gone also are the days when some hypomanic fit made me seize my lexicon by the throat and force it to sputter out words that I’d tag together using wordplay or some other poetic device. I have no song to sing anymore. My eyes look at the sky, but they’re reaching into oblivion; knocking at its black door and whispering, “Let us in. We’ve seen it all. The beauty of the mountainside doesn’t mesmerize us anymore, and the waves are no longer menacing. Let us in.” I no longer want to thrash violently like I once did, after pinning my father to the ground and scream, “Why! Tell me! Why!” The sea ushers me on towards no place in particular, and there is no shore in sight. I’ve left the damp earth that sticks to the soles of one’s shoe. I’ve left the stinging rain that hisses as it falls like a serpent. There is no wind here, but that’s not to say the air is stale. I’ve left my friends, my lovers, my loved ones, and the naysayers. They still trample on ants and crush the shells of snails, but I see nothing except the darkening sea that gently caresses me. The sea is the nurse, and I’m the wounded soldier who’ll never be able to fight again. She says nothing. She doesn’t expect anything. She has compassion, but it’s from a distance, and I prefer it that way because that old proverb about proximity and contempt is true.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2019)

Photo by Sérgio Rola on Unsplash

18 Replies to “Apathy”

      1. “Would you believe that Marilyn Monroe
        was a double agent, working for Kaos,
        till the Secret Service uncovered her?
        It was left to Control to cover it up.”
        ~ Maxwell Smart

      2. I haven’t watched the movie. But you’d know the truth, considering you’re an alien. Control is a word that’s like a double-edged sword. There’s control as in self-control or calmness, and then there’s control as in controlling L’Oréal!

      3. What exactly did you do to their souls? Huxley, Plato, Descartes, etc? Can you view the soul? I mean as a tangible thing. Some advanced Titanian technology involving lots of cream and radioactive material worse than the stuff found in the Fallout series I reckon!

      4. Just a simple peyote enema does the
        trick. Some, such as Aldous Huxley, quite
        like it, and keep coming back for more. (Often mistaken for experimental anal
        probing, by the ignorant. We do not need
        to experiment. We know full well what that
        mammalian hole is for.) 👽

      5. I’m pretty sure Aldous Huxley wrote Spit it out when he was denied an enema. That line: “Fuck me! I’m all out of enemas!” Seems right up his alley now that the truth is revealed. Slipknot just borrow stuff they aren’t supposed to. A drug right up the arse isn’t that unusual here, but like you said, the ignorant. You should do something about the Sheeple only instead of terraforming the entire planet!

      6. All our computer modelling has failed
        to give us an answer to fundamental
        extreme stupidity, unfortunately.
        But the “back-door plug of dreams” does
        seem to give temporary relief. Huxley
        wrote his best book, The Back Doors of
        Perception, on the subject (We held back
        publication till after the 2020 U. S. election
        … When the the shit is scheduled to hit the
        proverbial fan, as mankind collectively will have a rude awakening to the fact they are
        well & truly being screwed … As if by plan) 👽

      7. You could try implanting a few chips into the brains of the Sheeple. Man, I’m sure the back-door plug of dreams is a painful, excruciating reading. People in prison will enjoy it! I’m heading off to a secretly colonized mars later this year (or so I think!) and so, the madmen in power won’t disturb me while I’m reading Jack Kerouac and wondering if he was truly free spirited, or another Tyrannian product!

      8. All the Beat Poets had a turn at being
        “abducted”. Several, not to name names
        like William S. Burroughs or Allen Ginsberg,
        even volunteered for multiple abductions 👽

      9. I’m sure Allen Ginsberg enjoyed those anal intrusions 😎 Hell, he even wrote about them Mohammedan angels and wasted minds and butt fucking!

      10. Did you really? Or was it reverse psychology on your part? Anything for the blue blue grass of your new home, I reckon!

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