I’m just a lonely shit, and all I do is smoke, get fat, drink cheap, sediment-ridden wine, take my antidepressants, drink my cough syrup and trip on a downer now and then. I live in a lonely, shitty apartment in an overcrowded neighborhood where the traffic flits around like mosquitoes; where people have lives and jobs and pay the rent and fuck. I mooch off my parents and make demands, and then write pseudo-existential rants.
Women don’t give me a second glance anymore because my paunch is repulsive. I go unshaven, unkempt and with uneven hair to the cheap, shitty little cigarette shop and buy a pack of Marlboro every day. I then binge drink energy drinks and coffee and when a rush of mania overwhelms like a fierce gale (allow me to use a slightly archaic, poetic term) and destroys my ramshackle consciousness and I’m left with subconscious detritus that cyber-junkies and video game connoisseurs who play RPGs like they’re eating caviar have, I write and write and write some more.
Just give me my pills – red, blue, white – and I’ll exist in my shitty space devoid of the sun, moon, stars and the rain. Just give me my booze and alter my consciousness; make me fucking hazy; hell, make everything fucking hazy.
Go on then, give up on me. I’m a Bipolar freak after all. Go on then, throw me in the void without saying goodbye because greetings are overrated like cheesy Hallmark Cards. Go on then, beat me because I can’t fight. I’ll just cower like a kitten trapped by a bunch of Alsatians. I can’t scratch, claw or bite. So, go on then, stereotype me and say I threw away my existence, and take pleasure as your words cut right through my wine-soaked reverie and I’m no longer walking rosy boulevards, but clawing my way up the seven stages of Hell.
Go on then, finish what you started. I’ve given up on everything, and I’ll just kneel, waiting for your shitty sword to do its shitty job.
© Nitin Lalit Murali (2020)