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.

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

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 13: You

This poem is a riddle, in response to the prompt for NaPoWriMo Day 13. Other than that, it is also an acrostic poem- The first letter of each line, when read together, will spell a phrase. That phrase is the answer to the riddle. This poem is a little dark.

It is, maybe, of a different type
The one which has darkness inside

It is, maybe, not that different in fact
Sure, it likes to feel so

Yes, and it has a weird habit
Over and above the awkward life
Under any case, it won’t accept the truth
:
(Though, it maybe so)