Hiatus

I’m taking a long, extended break from WP. I’m traveling soon and won’t be back for a long time. I find blogging excruciating and have watched my friends become foes, my mind deteriorating into a paranoid mess and my blood sugar levels rise to 350, and my cholesterol levels to 500. I also find this platform filled with hate and find that I can’t express myself properly here. I like to write about love, death, despair, anger and loneliness, but I find a few people countering my poems, and then a feud starts and I find myself not writing what I want to. Writing is a dirty business and I need time away from it. I’m so very jaded. Thank you for all the support.

P.S. If you hate me, throw your best shot. I’m already dead.

I need a glimpse of Glory

I hate writing. It makes me miserable, but I keep at it because I’ve made it my idol. I’ve replaced God with art, and worship at an altar of futility. I’m a hypocrite, a liar, a sinner and a vainglorious worm like William Cowper puts it. I write blasphemous things, proclaim that God is dead though I know he’s very much alive, I use language and imagery that goes against my conscience, and I do it for validation, the likes and the comments.

Self-pity courses through my veins and what is it but bruised pride? Me feeling sorry for myself because I don’t get what I want. I am a narcissist, but then again, who isn’t? You have the arrogant, sitting-on-a-pedestal, feelingless narcissist and the low-self-esteem fueled one, and then you have those in the middle with moderate self-esteem, but selfish to the core, and I guess I fit into that last bracket.

Humanity is totally depraved. There isn’t a single soul who’s good at heart. We may not be out there murdering people, but we’re as murderous as that death-row inmate inside. We fail to see this though because our self-righteous hearts deceive us into thinking we’re sweet and innocent.

I hate when I lash out at people using writing, but I do it anyway. I hate when I check, check and check some more if someone has liked or commented on my posts, but I do it anyway. I hate when my writing and comments are filled with lies, but I do it anyway. I hate being miserable but I do the very things that cause me the deepest misery. The truth is that I’m not addicted to the things of the world as much as I’m addicted to myself. Sin is eating me alive, and there isn’t anything I can do about it, except wait for a miracle of grace.

But will God redeem me? Me, the chief of sinners who has lost all direction. Will he abandon the 99 to find this black sheep? Will he restore me, and thaw this hard heart? Or is darkness my only friend?

I remember when I once walked with God, and he loved me and me, him. I remember having faith and knowing in my heart that Christ lived the life I never did and died in my place. I remember tears of repentance not for the things I’d done, but the man I was. I remember a picture of glory in my mind’s eye and chasing after that infinitely precious glory with my heart and mind. I remember how God found me and delighted in making me his own, despite who I was.

But here I am today, unsure of my election or worse yet, knowing I’m this reprobate heading straight to eternal perdition, and not being able to do anything about it.

Calvinism is one hundred percent right, and there’s so such thing as free-will. Having said that God works in mysterious ways and maybe one day I’ll know why he took away all the affection I had for him. Yes, I mean affection; overwhelming emotion for Christ which includes love, joy, peace, Godly grief, and even righteous hate. Without that, you’re a cold Christian or perhaps not one at all. I’ll end by saying, ‘Man, I need a glimpse of the glory of Christ again!’ Because despite how hard I try to do the right things, I’ll either only fail or pretend to be virtuous when I’m so full of vice.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

Freak

You said, ‘I’m glad I let you go, and dissolved our friendship,’ but what’s strange is that you’re the one stalking me; reading my posts and injecting yourself between my lines, thinking I write about you. The earth doesn’t spin on its axis for your post-millennial theatrics, and the stars don’t glint like fireflies in the sky for your drama. I put you out of my system a long time ago, but you creep up now and then like a lizard on a wall, showing your horrendous face and I can’t help but be mad. I’m giving you too much attention by writing this, but it’s better to cough up acidic bile using words than soaking yourself – like a sponge – in the green ditch-water of bitterness. You’re an archetypal narcissist hiding behind distorted feminism, false Me Too banners  and blame games. You cannot humble yourself and apologize for the hurt you’ve caused, but whine and bitch when you’re hurt, pointing at everything in your vicinity, saying, ‘He’s responsible; she’s responsible; they’re responsible.’ Now I’m a fault-ridden man who has made his share of mistakes and paid dearly for them, and though my attempts to get my shit together crumbles to shattered idealism, I’ll admit that I’m responsible for throwing my life away.

It’s strange that you contact me after telling me that you’re doing everything in your power to avoid me, and that you don’t want me around. So, I wisely did the right thing then and fucked off. Now, you’re in some deep pit, and you want my hand pulling you out of it, but I’m sorry, you closed that chapter a long time ago. I hate giving people advise, but please don’t use people after you’ve hurt them. It’s selfish and reckless, just like you cutting yourself and not seeking professional help for your depression is. You’re sadly all about me, myself and I with a universe of self-pity revolving around that core, and maybe you’ll have an epiphany or maybe not, but regardless of where you end up or what you do, push me out of that head of yours and leave me the fuck alone.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)