I’ve spent the last eight years of my life weaving a web of madness like a spider on meth. I’ve written line after line of verse and shot it into the blogosphere like cum after an especially violent frig. When mania doesn’t drive me like a lunatic controlling a taxi, I spend a few minutes reflecting. These moments feel like an out-of-body experience because I watch myself from a distance as a silent poltergeist stalks its prey. It’s then that epiphany after epiphany floods me, and I’m left shocked, broken and lonely. I scream and tell the part of me who is so prone to self-destruction to get a fucking grip on his life. “What’s the matter with you, you self-indulgent bastard! Don’t you want to move on with your life! Look at all the people you’ve known! They’re not smoking 30 cigarettes a day, and wasting their lives, having succumbed to nihilism. Do something!” I yell. But that twisted part of me never listens.
He’d rather walk precariously on the divide that separates sanity from madness. He’d rather flush his life down the toilet. He’d rather spend recklessly, eat furiously and wank fiercely. He’d rather forget the shame of being a complete moron on the internet. He’s far gone. There’s no saving him. And the part of me that wants a better life can’t contain him. He’ll lead me to my doom. He won’t stop until I’m a mangled mess like a car wreck.
Medication can’t stop him, and meditation won’t soothe him. Inside all of us, there’s a beast that gnaws his way to the surface. Most of us manage to contain him, but unfortunately, there are a few reprobates like me who can’t. This monster slowly eats us alive. Now, I don’t know what his name is. Maybe it’s Depravity or Depression or Despair or Foolishness. But he’s in all of us.
I’m in Hotel California. The place where the beast lives, and there is no way out. Once this place looked like a five-star resort with a massage parlour, jacuzzi, tennis court and clubhouse. It now looks like a Jeff VanderMeer creation. The place has walls of bone and floors of rotten meat. The beds are green cages, in which they lock you up for the night. There is hardly any light, and some greasy, white liquid fills the pool. The entertainment has changed from guitar players strumming some old Spanish Melody to tribal percussionists playing bizarre, harrowing beats. The kind played before a village sacrifice occurs.
I’ll end now because I’m fucking tired of writing this shit, and because I have no idea about where I’m going with it. I wanted to deconstruct Aristotle’s ‘Poetics,’ and write some literary criticism, but I haven’t slept all night and can’t think clearly. So, this is what you, my dear readers get. Until next time, ciao.
© Nitin Lalit Murali (2019)