I throw the dice, never knowing where it’ll land – poverty, mediocrity
or parading my wealth of experience. 1,2,3,4,5,6. I throw the dice
and often must hunt for it, searching under tables or chairs, and it’s
both tiresome and a thrill. 1,2,3,4,5,6.
I love her. She’s walked the roads I’ve walked, seen both the
picturesque lakes and the ramshackle cigarette shops I’ve
seen. She’s loved me back furiously, ferociously and fiercely.
I’ve seen more than a cyber carousel. The digital world blinded my
eyes, but a brilliant, scintillating light opened them, burned the scales
obscuring my vision, and like Paul after Damascus, I know
there’s more to life, more to vision, more to experience
and more to truth.
I don’t Netflix and Chill anymore. I go to the old football
field and practise my Cruyff turns and step-overs before
chipping the ball with my right foot on that old wall
that encloses it, and then chase the ball
like a mongrel after meat thrown when it rebounds,
and it’s an insatiable lust for life.
I go to the mountains when I get the chance, the mist
enveloping, engulfing me like I’m a hero right out of
a fantasy novel. The layered tea plantations and their
scent invigorating and refreshing me, and the cool,
crisp draft empowering me, waves and waves of
euphoria coursing through me, a lovable turbulence,
an enjoyable turmoil.
I speak to friends I’ve made from different parts of the world,
their experiences teaching me that there’s so much more
despite the prison scars of yesterday’s abuse. They teach
me, rebuke me and selflessly make me know humility by acting
more than standing in a pulpit and barking, yelling,
I listen to music that’s omnipresent and omnipotent, wielding
the power to change the core of my distorted core,
penetrating my depths and altering me, not ephemerally,
but more substantially, the jazz of Brubeck, the alternative
metal of Breaking Benjamin, the hard rock of Chevelle,
the contemporary classical of Einaudi, the blues of
Gary Clark Jr.
I read books philosophical and those written for entertainment,
the wealth of knowledge gripping my substance like vines,
but in a good way, the emotion and mysticism transporting
and transforming me, making me yearn to learn and know more,
and making me dare the roller-coaster ride of a plethora of
I long for my mother’s touch and my father’s true repentance
and they’ve taught me to see the good in the ugly, the
gold coin floating in the ditch. The former loves me and the
latter declares it, but it makes me realize that I matter, that
my words aren’t unheard and what goes unsaid is screamed on
I crave for a sojourner’s fate. I crave to walk through favelas and
rusty fields with an archaic charm. I want to sit in coffee shops
and watch people pass by, wondering what their stories are,
wondering if they find balance in all this imbalance, wondering
if they trust, fight and love as vehemently as I do.
I love solitude. The cool breeze of the ceiling fan and me staring
into nothingness often gives me a better perspective and with
a deeper sense of knowing comes a deeper sense of expression
which my art reflects, each time it colors itself with the hues of
I love change. I’ve spent my life judging people, hating them
and cutting them off, but I don’t want to anymore. I want to
break this vicious cycle which thrives on malice while it gnaws
and gnaws at what’s left of my fucking soul. I’ll tilt Murphy’s
Law upside down and say what can go right will go right, and
if there’s a profound search for change, the gods have already
placed you on the right path.
I love myself and not in a vainglorious or self-pity-soaked way,
but in the sense that fate has gifted me with myself and however
excruciating the trial is, the sword of truth, the breastplate of
hope burnished with love and the helmet of redemption lie
in the attic and it just takes a few steps to find them, dust
them and wear them and fight and fight, and fight some more.
P.S. Whatever your war is my friend, say no to suicide.
© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)
You’ll find more of Nitin’s work at Fighting the dying light