For Brooklyn

​Among the subtleties of human predicaments, I often like to imagine, is a lie that they had us believe. A lie- or a truth gone rogue- that was fed to us to keep the darkness away, which now ironically forms the very basis of it. 

The fundamental error of our lives has been to let that lie settle into our souls, to place our bets on the belief that- purposeful things cannot end into nothingness. 

Death Is Waking Up In A Train

I often imagine death as waking up in a train.
You wake up in a white, silverish train with silver metal seats carefully arranged in the sides like an array so that they face each other.
The floor is greyish and after each coach is a small plastic tube of the same colour connecting the coaches.
You wake up and find yourselves sitting at the foremost seat of the foremost coach. The train is moving very fast and everything is shaking. There is no sound at all, except  a pleasant song from your childhood. It’s like you are wearing earphones. You glance out of the window and see familiar places passing you by, in a beautiful sunny background which is reminiscent of a pleasant weather.
You stand up and look around. The seats are almost full. Each and every person you had ever met in your life is occupyng a seat. You take a stroll towards the last coach, passing through the junction tubes, holding silver poles to compensate the shaking.
You see your mother, your father, your lover, everyone. But, they don’t recognise you. They just look at you, stare at you suspiciously, as if you are a stranger who stole something valuable from them.
And, for some reason, you cannot talk to them. You cannot open your mouth, you cannot think of speaking. The only thought that is running through your mind is that you know these people and that at some point of time, they must have known you too. And, that is all you can think of.
You continue to walk and soon reach the last coach. The shaking starts to get milder, and milder, till it stops altogether. There are no familiar places outside the window anymore, and nothing is moving either. You just see a white platform. Slowly and sluggishly, the doors slide open and just, as they do, you notice that there is no music playing anymore. There is no sound at all, in fact.
You look inside the train, everywhere. Everyone is still just sitting. No one lifts his head, no one bats her eye. No one steps to get off, except of course yourself. It’s time.
You slowly walk outside. The train doors close behind, dramatically. The platform is like any other platform, only cleaner and whiter. There are a few people around. There is a weather around, but nothing other than the whiteness of the platform is noticeable. It is like a dream.
As you look behind, you see the train going away, carrying everyone you had ever known. But, you are not sad. Both they and you have let go.
You turn back around to face the platform, and just as you do, the music starts again. You take a step forward, slowly and gently picking up your right leg and putting it down a little in front of the left one. And, just as your sole (soul) touches the ground, everything except the music fades into white nothingness- oblivion.

Our Revolutions

Us. We.
We can never be part of a revolution. We live in crowds. We shout in whispers. We see through masks. The only ones we kiss are our deaths. The only deaths we face are our lives. Our existence, our presence revolves around the same axis as our absence.
We exist in boxes, we sleep in one, we walk in one, we are sick of one. But, we aren’t gonna break one, the box, for we are scared of living without it: alone, outside.
We are desperate, sad, needy people. We are begging for a revolution. But, we aren’t gonna get one. Not that we lack ideas. No. Only none of us, no one from us has the guts to start one. We can never be part of a revolution.

Tragedy

A tragedy
As is known
Has two sons
The elder one
Be despondence and fear
The younger one
Be fulfillment and irony

The elder rules at first
Kills at first
To create a stage for his brother
And, the brother comes later
When the play is over.

Is mine a tragedy?
No.
It’s a play.
And, somehow
It’s more tragic

Last Station

I take a train
Everyday to that last station
On my line
And, I know
I’ll meet you there.

But, do not
Do not meet me there.
Do not
Do not wait for me.
For I do not want you to
Regret
Waiting for your date.
I will come.
But, it might be too late.

Travel with me.
Instead
Sit with me
On the ground
As we go through a myriad stops
Twisting and turning
Towards the last station.
Stay with me
Till that last station.
And beyond.

Anarchy

The problem is that we believe.
That we search for reasons.
That we cannot accept chaos
That we cannot see souls randomly floating around
In anonymous expanse.

The problem is that we continue to believe.
That we continue to search.
That we continue to be disappointed.
That we continue to be tortured not seeing the scales
Balancing in themselves.

The problem is that our beliefs aren’t that strong
That our search is not that exhaustive
That chaos is not that accommodating
That by the time we wake up to reality
We would have lost our chance.

The problem is that we are still hoping
That we believe this poem is a lie,
That I am waiting for you to prove it to me
That I am waiting for you to come and tell me
That I am waiting.

Opportunity Cost

Dark clouds
Filled the ashen sky
Slowly, calmly, mildly
Increasing their horror
In light, circular movements,
And, a flock of birds was lost.

A bird
Emerged through the darkness
Rushingly, fleetingly, nervously,
Tearing the horror apart
In quickened straight nudges
But, at what cost?

He emerged alone.
Alone.
People called him resiliant.
And, he was.
But, at what cost.
A flock of birds was lost.

Economics Finals are on.

NaPoWriMo Day 30: Rewind

No, it wasn’t dark.
When you were alive
Shows me how it was
A walk in the park,

Before it was to start.
How it all began
There, I see it again
A walk in the park

The old familiar arc.
The benches we sat on
And, I am back there
A walk in the park

In response to the optional prompt for NaPoWriMo Day 30:

For the last day of NaPoWriMo, I’d like you to try an odd little exercise that I have had good results with. Today, I challenge you to write a poem backwards. Start with the last line and work your way up the page to the beginning. Another way to go about this might be to take a poem you’ve already written, and flip the order of the lines and from there, edit it so the poem now works with its new order.

Original poem: A Walk