We’ll meet again sometime in a place where God Is an Astronaut plays and the ambiance is just right. We’ll be older then and will have so much to talk about. We’ll be lucid, articulate ourselves better and talk of fights fought and wars won. I guess we’ll also pen some Biblical prose about the fall of our Jerusalem in the vein of Lamentations or a nihilistic Ecclesiastes. We’ll talk about the women in our lives and progress from romances based on a flutter of youthful emotion to those based on tragic ideals – faulty right from the beginning – embodying the love and hate, the yin and yang of our twenty something sex crazed selves. We’ll then progress to older lovers and a more mature catharsis, and marriages and illicit affairs. We’ll talk of our slipshod existences and the guilt mistakes bring. We’ll flaunt the keloids we’ve gained and the tattoos that mean something. We’ll talk of the righteous indignation we felt when people betrayed us, matching the wrath of Jehovah. We’ll talk of walking like nomads without a place to stay – like abominations and outcasts – with Cain’s mark on our foreheads. We’ll shoot Indian rum or sediment soaked cheap Indian wine. We’ll drunk dial exes in both a friendly and a perverse way and say we’ve discarded the scrimshawed jewelry they gave us but kept the panties. We’ll talk about our irrational, antigodlin fears and the paranoia that made our eyes dart from side to side. We’ll talk of absurdism and how we embraced it like a fling with an alluring woman at some point in our lives; fighting despite acknowledging there is no purpose. But all that’s for then, and now, you and I must take leave. I’m going MIA soon and disappearing in the mountains to find new birth or something and your path is yours alone. Farewell friend.
© Nitin Lalit Murali (2019)