Life finds provenance and meets Death cradling Grief

‘Will things get better Ma?’ I’d ask her, once a fractured identity, found its cast of maternal iron and grit, determined to see the boy through shoves that split ears open – red drops of anguish finding an emotionally ramshackled Gethsemane – though he was too young to pray, to plead and to say sorrowfully, ‘If it’s your will, take this cup,’ and desperate to see him uphold integrity and become the antithesis of the man, who – when she had an early hysterectomy because blood and nearing death finds its provenance in sorrow and ashes: the grime of you’ll never be good enough as a wife, lover and a person – beat the boy on the way to the hospital for leaving a textbook in school. ‘God! God! You and your mother chant! Where is your God!’ He screamed trying to smash his face against the car’s dashboard. ‘You’ll fail your bloody exams, and even if you were to find your textbook don’t you dare tell me that you said so, you little bastard.’

‘Will things get better Ma?’ I’d ask her after they’d finally separated and she took the gamble and said, ‘I’d rather be on the streets with my son than watch him grow, wearing his father’s skin.’ She’d seen the rebellion, the blows delivered in the parking lot, but some shared idealism of knowing worse kept them. He’d pinned her to a bed when the boy was still five and tried killing her, and as innocence slowly left the boy’s soul and he let out a primal scream, he slapped the boy. ‘Shut up!’ He countered with feral ferocity and slapped the ground and shouted, ‘See I’m hurting myself too!’

‘Will things get better Ma?’ I’d ask her after disappointments on the football field and the wrong woman, who was never the yin to my yang, never the destiny, the truth or true love because these things find their birth in collective pain and strength to both wear and bear it. The girl had known pain but she suppressed it and marched to Hypocrisy’s parade: a salute and a stand at ease when Society barked on his platform held together by man’s strained, crooked limbs and knock-kneed stance. ‘Rip the veil and see,’ I’d tell her, but the traumatized often either worsen or slam the iron maiden shut on others like them, or swing, unsteadily somewhere between, where there isn’t darkness or light; just the false lull of addiction.

‘Will things get better Ma?’ I asked her, holding her frail limbs and bellowing, a sudden car crash of recollection. ‘Stay! Tell me! Please!’ And after years of separation and my relationships with worse women and flings with alcohol, she smiled a smile of togetherness, but it wasn’t a bittersweet ending for me; just a spear cracking skin, breaking arteries, piercing my organic core and rushing out from the other side.

‘Will things get better?’ I ask myself in this small town where the petrichor supposedly enlivens, the birds chirp, and Autumn tosses orange scarves as she drifts slowly in her gown of bristles and thorns, with ripened halitosis – a dethroned Empress, and she stares at me, never knowing where I’m heading, bleeding from the rocks of Reality thrown, and says, ‘Godspeed. I hope things get better,’ with a sad idealistic smile.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

Originally published in Morality Park 


Abigail and I walked to a ramshackle bar after her father’s funeral service. She wanted to get away from her mother and her brothers. She wanted to wallow in self-pity, and I guess she picked the introspective, brooding me because she thought I’d make a great companion and well…because misery loves company as the old adage puts it.

Paunched, sleazy cops and haggardly men with no purpose filled the bar. We ambled along to the counter where a man with a lopsided grin and a squint looked at us. Abigail wore a sari and didn’t look all that attractive, but that didn’t prevent the bartender from looking at her from top to bottom.

Abigail usually picked lounge bars or elegant restaurants, but both of us were short on cash, and so, we settled for this place where men belched, and masala peanuts were the only appetizers available. The acrid stench of the strongest and cheapest liquor overwhelmed us, but we braved it anyway.

We asked the waiter for two glasses of Old Monk and a bottle of Coke. We received our order in less than five minutes. That’s the only beauty of ramshackle bars in India. You don’t have to wait long for your order. Abigail suddenly decided to drink her rum raw and just gulped it down. She didn’t even look disgusted after she’d finished. I guess grief has a way of overwhelming us and killing what’s left inside.

‘He was the only one who truly loved me,’ she said, ‘The only person who stood by me despite me throwing my life away.’

‘I felt the same way when my mom passed, but even though the grief never subsides, you find a way to pull through eventually.’

‘Now, I’m left with a mother who hates me and two brothers who’re too young to understand deep emotion. She shields them from me, you know? She thinks they’ll end up becoming an addict like me if they hang out with me long enough.’

‘I don’t know what to say, Abigail. I’m a fucked-up person too. I threw away every opportunity fate gave me; handed it back to her like a spoiled, ungrateful child, and I guess that’s what I am: A man-child with zero sense of responsibility.’

‘At least your father financially supports you. I don’t have any support, and I can’t keep a job. Don’t you wonder what all this is about sometimes? The meaning of suffering and the final purpose? I’m tired of just going with the flow, but I can’t aim myself in any direction, and when I try, I’m more directionless than before. You get the drift?’

‘Yeah, I do. I think we fall into these inescapable patterns of recklessness that lead to the same tragic consequences again and again. I think it has to do with some deep-seated hurt that we suppress initially before bottling it up becomes unendurable, and it violently breaks free.’

Abigail looked at me with her brown eyes but said nothing. We never fancied each other even though there was a time when she couldn’t handle her mom’s incessant verbal abuse and lived with me for a while before her father took her back home. We just drank and did drugs then, just like we’d done over the years. We always opted for antihistamines and codeine. She got prescriptions from a friend of hers who was a doctor. We’d make sure we never visited the same medical shop thrice though. We made this decision after a pharmacist threatened to call the police if we ever visited his shop again.

Soon we were well into our fourth drink, and Abigail suddenly surprised me by placing her hand on mine and locking fingers. Grief does strange things to people. I wondered where our friendship would go if I gave in to her impulses. Will it end up in a garbage dump with the two of us feeling even more sorry for ourselves? Will a romantic relationship blossom? Will we go back to being just friends? I also felt guilty because she was replacing the bond we had with another more intimate one on the day her father died.

‘I can’t give you what you what Abigail, and besides, it’s the grief talking,’ I said and hastily removed my hand from the table.

‘We don’t love each other and we’ll never be attracted to each other, but let’s make an exception tonight. We’re both broken, and can never fix each other, but just this one night, please.’

‘Now it’s the alcohol talking. You need to stop. You can come to my place and sleep on the bed while I sleep on the couch. But that’s it. Besides, I have this on-off thing with Mary, and this is wrong, very wrong…’ I said, quite tipsy myself.

We managed to get to my apartment, wobbling and laughing randomly. Once there, we popped a few Avil, and soon we both had an ugly bad trip. We couldn’t laugh or suppress the pain anymore, and so, I just sat against the bathroom wall and looked up at the ceiling, a cigarette dangling from my mouth while she rested her head on my lap.

Suddenly, she plucked and threw my cigarette away and kissed me. I kissed back, and she led me to the bedroom where we got naked.

‘Are you sure?’ I asked her, ‘This feels wrong.’

‘Hush,’ she said and kissed me everywhere, and we soon made love.

I fell asleep and woke up, only to find her staring teary-eyed at me. I wept a little too. A maelström of guilt coursed through me, and I knew I had broken both our hearts; fractured them even more. I looked away and stared at the decaying cabinet, embodying all we were and all we were becoming.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

Home (Part 5)

What is sin? Kierkegaard initially says that it’s defying the will of God, but then goes further and terrifies you by saying that it’s not just things you commit, but a state. So, sin is essentially a state of despair. So, before salvation everything you do is sin, because you’re living in a sinful state. And after, you’re justified by faith in Christ.

Jude and Samantha have decided to live separately. She loves him and says she’ll support him financially, until he can get back on his feet. Jude’s grown cold. Nothing affects him anymore. He’s dead and spiritless. He hardly showers, doesn’t shave and just exists. He thinks he’ll never be forgiven though some hope resides deep within him. A hope that resurfaces for a minute before he’s back to being cold again. He doesn’t yell or abuse Samantha anymore. He’s given up on pretty much everything and if not for that hope that shows itself now and then, he’s just a walking corpse.

In his anger, Jude wrote blasphemous things against God, embraced Nihilism and even proclaimed that God is dead. He’s now on medication for Bipolar Disorder and loathes everything he does. But this loathing isn’t an active loathing, but a passive one. It’s a mute, whispered, submissive loathing. He’s done with active loathing and I guess that’s because somewhere deep inside he still has a conscience. And maybe this moral compass is the hope within him that appears before vanishing.

Man isn’t free. Crime and Punishment is the best novel that explains this concept in tremendous detail. You’re not free to do whatever you want to, which is why a drug addict goes back to his needle, the alcoholic to his drink, the sex addict to his women, the tortured artist to his art, and Raskolnikov to his sordid streets with his head bowed down. It’s guilt. Heavy, intense guilt that torments, plagues and crushes and man in his desperate need to be free from it goes back to an ephemeral cure that’s only destroying him. He cannot find God and so, he seeks substitutes, until they destroy him completely. And Jude’s like every other guilt-ridden man. He hates writing, but writes because it’s his fix. He hates alcohol but drinks because it’s his fix. He knows drug-addiction is affecting him physically, making his hands tremble and giving him blurred vision, but he needs his fix.

So where does Jude stand before God? The truth is that he doesn’t know. He believes there’s still hope but he’s hopeless to do anything at this point and so he waits. God is often silent making man wonder if he exists at all, but those are the times that he’s working the most to restore an individual to him through some mysterious way. This much Jude believes, and I guess that’s all he can do at this point.

Jude has decided to not talk about God anymore. He’ll just keep quiet and try getting his life together. Reconciliation with Samantha is impossible, but reconciliation with Christ is possible. There are times when he doubts this and plunges into extreme despair, but he gets through each day by just existing, by just breathing.

And what about Samantha? Well, all of us serve God’s purpose, and I’d like to believe that God has a beautiful plan for her life because he knows how much she loved Jude. Sure, she’s corrupt, just like everyone else, but somewhere God who led her this far, will not forsake her. And that belief, whether it’s faith or not, keeps her going.

Maybe this story will end with Jude dying this way, or maybe he’ll be restored. He’s deep in sin and loves it, but also fears God. He’s a paradox of a man and perhaps he’ll stay this way. And then there’s mental illness. The Church is often quick to dismiss it. They say, ‘It’s a battle in the mind, or it’s something you conquer through faith,’ but they forget that we live in a fallen world. This world is already a post-apocalyptic one that is only getting worse. And in a world of disease, death and corruption, mental illness exists. So, perhaps like Jude’s loving mother always told him, ‘God understands.’

P.S. I originally planned to write more, but I’ve decided that this is a fitting conclusion to this series. Thank you for reading.

(Inspired by The Sickness unto Death by Søren Aabye Kierkegaard and Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoevsky)

The End.

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© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

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Home (Part 4)

It’s been a while since Jude’s last revelation. He’s taken to writing now and has become a poet with a religious obsession. I use the word obsession because he has no faith. He’s obsessed with where he stands before God, but deep down he knows that he doesn’t stand rightly before him. And this is another paradox in a life already plagued with complications and complexities.

Jude barely talks to Samantha and they sleep in different beds. He’s given himself over to smoking, alcohol, pornography and pharmaceuticals. He’s lost his job and leans on Samantha for monetary support. Samantha is a doctor and so Jude goes to her and asks for a prescription to get his Avil and cough syrups. He says, ‘I have a rash, and I’m sure you heard me coughing this morning,’ and she initially gave in. But she soon noticed that he’s becoming a junkie and said, ‘I can’t do this anymore. It’s like asking you to plagiarise when you write,’ and then came the barrage of insults and abuses hurled. It wasn’t anger, it was white-hot murderous rage. Sick, despicable rage.

Jude’s a caricature of a man now. He’s parody personified. He writes about religion while he’s on drugs or between trips to the bathroom to smoke his cigarette. He talks of humility but cuts people off with furious pride. He writes about love but is dead inside. He talks about possibilities but has succumbed to fatalism. He’s comical in a twisted, tragic sense. He’s a man who doesn’t practise what he preaches. He’s dual-minded and Janus-faced. His duplicity knows no bounds. He’s a pathetic wretch of a creature. Jude had an abusive father growing up and vowed to never become that man. But he’s become someone worse. At least his father had no proper insight into his condition. Jude on the other hand consciously rebels.

Jude’s in for a great, severe judgement if God doesn’t redeem him. He cannot change and slowly is moving to a point where he doesn’t desire change anymore. All this is taking a severe toll on Samantha and Jude feels it deep within, but he’s resigned and hopeless. All he does is read and write, negating responsibility and indulging in the pleasures of the flesh, which only leave him guilt-ridden, and the cycle continues.

Here’s another mystery that Kierkegaard explains so well: The logician is quick to dismiss God because he thinks that the notion of God coming in the flesh and dying on the cross for his sin and begging him to come to him is ludicrous. The artist on the other hand can imagine it because he can grasp the abstract. But often the artist stays there and doesn’t progress further to faith in Christ, and having known so much, he’s in for a harsher judgement. The artist doesn’t wish to progress further because he’s like Jude, clinging to both misery and wanting to stand rightly before God at the same time.

Now everything I’ve written so far is essentially borrowed from Kierkegaard. I’ve only simplified him and have made a story revolve around his philosophy. So, in that sense I’m guilty and a thief. But every artist is, and so is Jude because originality is the creator and all creation only imitates. We cannot exist without a relationship to something else, and we cannot perceive things without relating them to some aspect of our own lives. We grasp because we’ve lived. We know because we experience.

Socrates says ignorance is sin. Kierkegaard goes one step further and says it’s defiance that’s sin. Socrates says that if a man claims to know but doesn’t act rightly, it’s because he never knew at all. Kierkegaard says that he knows but doesn’t act rightly because his will is in defiance to the will of God. And goes further to say that only divine revelation will show a man his depravity. Otherwise he’ll continue in his ignorance which is really a defiance.

So, what about Jude? He once knew but lost. His will was once aligned to God’s will and perhaps he possessed faith, though the Calvinists will say he didn’t. And maybe they’re right. Maybe like John Piper put it such a man has high religious experiences but they’re all a delusion. Or perhaps like John Bunyan put it Jude is in the man in the iron cage. A professor who like Demas, Saul and Judas eventually proven counterfeit. A disciple who despite receiving the Holy Ghost eventually is severed from God in this life itself. And is that the unpardonable sin? The blasphemy against the Holy Ghost? An active defiance against God despite knowing him intimately once.

(Inspired by The Sickness unto Death by Søren Aabye Kierkegaard)

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© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

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(P.S. Please comment if you feel the need to. I’ll respond once I’m done with the series)

Home (Part 3)

We live in a time of a Pentecostal hysteria and showman pastors and faith-healers. And one common notion prevalent in these churches is that possession by an evil spirit creates the demoniac. And then you have the pastor yelling, ‘Get out, you dirty spirit!’ Literally pushing a man, as if a mere shove can cure him. Oh, how far they’re from the truth! But what creates the demoniac? The man who breaks shackles and rebels against humanity, nature and himself?

If you delved deep into the Kierkegaardian stages of despair, you’ll get the answer. You’ll first find the comical despair or instability. Here’s a man who despairs over something earthly or something transient. Jude despaired this way when he was in college and still does sometimes when deprived of some want. Each time he didn’t play football well, he’d spend the day in utter misery and seek validation. He’d burden his poor mother with his failures, going to extreme details to explain technical terms to her, and then deluded would ask her, ‘Will I make it ma?’ And the poor woman had no other choice but to share in his delusion because she loved him immensely, and would say, ‘Yes. I’m praying for you.’

He remained this way for a long time with a self made of plastic. Crushed, but his lack of insight gave him a modicum of hope, and he clung to it with all his might fueling his fancy, though the winds of reality howled and shrieked. He called himself a Christian then and even attended church, but his faith was insipid and tasteless, just like the faith of those who believe in the prosperity gospel. He tried using God to elevate himself. ‘Give me a beautiful girlfriend,’ he’d pray and then seek his mother’s validation again.

Traces of this despair remain in Jude, but over the years he gained insight. It tore him, and he stopped craving for the materialistic and looked for love. And then entered Samantha, whom he began idolizing. Youth looks to the imagined future and finds itself trapped there, while age looks back through recollection and finds its own trap. And this explains Jude’s relationship with his mother who was also a woman who’d seen much suffering. His masculine ambition sought hope from someone flawed and finite, while she like those rare women who lose themselves completely by loving someone; literally forsaking themselves wanted the best for him and went out-of-the-way to get him a better life. And yet both cases are tragically despair. The former a selfish one, while the latter a selfless one. Oh, what a burden God has placed on humanity that even being altruistic doesn’t qualify as goodness! And I can’t help but ask if this is fair? Is God just? Is being born into this world the biggest curse?

Jude’s insight into his deluded condition, helped him slowly find release, and though he remained in misery, he wasn’t given to wishful thinking anymore. He wanted now to forsake himself; rid himself of his sin and guilt. His abusive nature and idolization of Samantha was eating him alive. He wanted to break the horrible cycle. Samantha now became a mother figure to him and he poured his heart out to her, and she listened and loved him deeply. Despite her bitterness, she too had an altruistic aspect to her. A big one. And this made him love her deeply, but he couldn’t change. Love isn’t just action, and neither is it just emotion. It’s emotion that acts. Jude had the emotion, but couldn’t act, couldn’t prove his love. While Samantha had both and proved her love for Jude. But Samantha lost herself completely loving Jude and displaced her standing with God. Now no relationship is perfect but a healthy one has God at its core, because God is infinite love, and finitude is capable of only a fractured love, prone to mistakes and sorrow.

After Jude lost God, he became the demoniac, the poet or the tortured artist. He’d transcended earthly despair, and the despair of wanting to lose himself. He’d even transcended the despair of wanting a new better self. He now wished to remain in active rebellion against God and had attained the despair of wanting to become God. He wanted to replace God, and this is precisely Satan’s rebellion and Adam’s fall. But Adam reconciled with God and Jude couldn’t. He had a deep-seated hate for God and blamed him, and so found himself in perpetual turmoil. He’d have moments of peace before he’d lash out, and since it’s impossible to lash out against God, he’d hate Samantha and use her as an object of his rage. Perhaps this in a way echoes Cain and Abel.

Jude has now realized where he stands, and it’s a paradox isn’t it? You can never forsake yourself and yet you do precisely that when you change for the worse.

(Inspired by The Sickness unto Death by Søren Aabye Kierkegaard)

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© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

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Home (Part 2)

Samantha loved contentment. She loved the temporal now, but disdained the eternal now, and what’s tragic is that she was completely oblivious to this fact. A bourgeois existence pleased her, and gatherings, social events, people and nature thrilled and exhilarated her. She never investigated her true spiritual condition, although she professed to be in Christendom. She was spiritless, but longed for rich aesthetic experiences, and when she received them believed that they were signs of her union with God.

In this world we have hedonists and thrill seekers, introspective quiet people, lovers and quarrellers, but irrespective if you’re rich or poor, logical or creative, impassioned or bitter, you’re in despair, and the worst despair is the ignorance of despair. The false peace that lulls a deceitful heart, telling a terminally ill spiritual you that you’re rosy cheeked and healthy. And this false peace is found in chiefly two kinds of people: The hedonists and the embittered. The former live in a continuous state of pleasure and try satisfying all their desires and lusts. They live a life of wild, reckless abandonment and they’re happy, but here’s the mystery they’re secretly unaware of: If you peeled the layers of the onion, you’ll find that they’re just as sick as people who’re self-conscious and despondent. The latter have seen so much hurt, loneliness and bone-crushing pain, and develop a self-righteousness. You’ll find some of them in the realm of professing Christendom; others in other religions—monotheistic and polytheistic, and still others in even atheism. Their pain sadly gives them a false sense of entitlement and their motto becomes, ‘we’re good people,’ and this shroud of false gold envelopes them and when confronted, they become indignant. And this in one sense creates the self-righteous elder son in that famous parable in the Gospel.

Samantha had seen so much pain in her life; she’d endured many trials, and this gave her a false sense of entitlement. Jude wasn’t a good husband. He’d both verbally and physically abused Samantha so many times, but his veneration for her made her love him and accept him each time he came back guilt-ridden and wept and apologized. ‘You’re my angel,’ he’d say, and this kept the wheels of a rocky relationship moving, until the day Jude found God, and confronted Samantha with tears in his eyes, begging her to see that she was lost. This tilted their world upside down and suddenly the roles changed, and Jude found himself backed against a wall while Samantha hurled abuses and screamed and shouted.

Oh, the mystery of God’s ways! Who can fathom him? He gives the degenerate an introspective, self-conscious mind and the polite a mind that refuses to dig deep because it’s terrified. Jude needed to break the cycle of abuse and so he didn’t seek Samantha and sought God and found him in repentance and knew that another died in his place, that another took his sickness unto death upon himself.

But Jude’s conversion didn’t last because he returned to venerating Samantha, and then backslid. The intense love in his heart for Christ faded and he slowly stopped feeling altogether. Jude succumbed to fatalism. He was intensely aware of his despair, but couldn’t see God as a possibility anymore, just a necessity and this in many ways is a demon’s despair. And Jude slowly became twice the demon he once was, and the vicious cycle emerged again. But something was different this time. Jude both hated and venerated Samantha, and his veneration now was more of a conscious effort, and Samantha saw through this and couldn’t forgive Jude like she once did anymore. So while the old pattern continued, a new one of distrust paralleled it.

(Inspired by The Sickness unto Death by Søren Aabye Kierkegaard and The Prodigal God by Timothy Keller)

Part 1

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

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Home (Part 1)

Jude woke each morning resigned, having given up on faith and hope. He yearned to forsake himself completely, rid himself of his soul, but he knew that just like every other human being he existed in two realms: the finite and the infinite, and though the body dies and decays, the soul lives forever. It’s one of the beauties of creation, the ephemeral and the eternal existing parallelly in the same being birthed from dust and ashes. Jude knew this but wished for utter, complete mortality. He wanted erasure, to have his name wiped away from the eternal blackboard. But once born, you’re handed this twin truth, and death doesn’t resolve anything, because it’s only the physical body that dies, while the spirit lives on. And this the root of despair—the inability to both forsake or find yourself spiritually. And the only way out is faith in an eternal God, because then you both root yourself in the infinite and forsake yourself more and more. Otherwise it’s a sickness unto death.

Some people believe in the universe, but the cosmos is only finite and expanding, and there is a God who sustains it, and the old book that most of us shelve tells you who the creator and sustainer is. It’s only logical that finitude (sentient or not) cannot sustain itself. There is someone greater, someone infinite who gives it its grounding. Jude knew this but couldn’t reconcile with a faith he once possessed because he often peered too deep, especially when it came to the root of all evil. He questioned his faith and riddled it with unnecessary doubt.

Jude loved Samantha, but they grounded their relationship in fancies of who they were and ideas of who they thought they’d become. And since human love isn’t celestial, but Jude made Samantha his all and a replacement for his faith, he grew despondent and disgruntled. Despair is part of the eternal aspect of the human condition, and it’s often better to know you’re despairing than to live in contentment, completely oblivious to the fact that you’re fundamentally flawed. Happiness is transient; moments shared with a loved one fade, become memory and slowly find themselves replaced; peace drifts away, and ambition falls short.

So, what we need is someone fantastic who transforms our emotion into something brilliant, our understanding into strong wisdom, and strengthens will and inclines it to eternity. Losing ourselves to God and not conforming to the world is the only way, and yet Jude claimed he was a nihilist. But in truth, he was either a doubting saint, a backslider, an apostate, or someone who tasted God but fell away because he secretly loved his despair though it gnawed at him like a worm nibbling on the core of an apple. Or Jude’s love for Samantha was so strong that he practically venerated her, replacing true worship with an idol in the form of a lover.

Possibilities filled Jude’s mind. Dreams, both sorrowed and ambitious engulfed him. He sought answers somewhere within, but the temporal realm offered him a plethora of choices. You can call it just daydreaming, or like psychologists these days call it ‘maladaptive’ daydreaming where a person has unrealistic expectations or gives himself to hopeless reverie. Jude’s life was catching up to him, but he stayed trapped in a cellar of chimera. To root yourself, you must go further than getting a hold of your life, because changing and working hard is grounding yourself in routine and not reality. True reality is unseen, infinite, but was also seen and died at Calvary for the sickness that plagues our souls, tainting it with sin and creating despair. True reality is the eternal now, and despair creates thirst, which creates need, which only the cross satisfies. Jude knew he had to root himself by finding himself by grounding himself in God, but trials made him weary and he kept trying in vain to forsake himself.

(Inspired by The Sickness unto Death by Søren Aabye Kierkegaard)

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

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