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.

Memories

Memories are worse than bullets
This is one of my favourite quotes. I wish I had written it or at least, something as magnificent as this. It is fascinating to see how it captures so many emotions in a single line.
You are going in a local train and it stops at a particular station, you had once got off at with someone. You get off at it again, though it is not your station. You get off because you are suddenly overwhelmed by nostalgia and you just cannot, not go there again.
You sit at the same spots where you used to sit together before. You eat at the same cafe, you buy things from the same store. You climb the same stairs where she had almost fallen down on once before. And, you just look the other way, smiling a little.
Now, you look at the gate where you had left her. You imagine her looking back at you before leaving. She turns around slowly, like she had once when you had called her name for the first time; the first time you had met her. She turns around and she comes back to you running and hugs you. You ask her to stay, but she just has to go.
And, she goes. And, you? Years later, you just stand there, imagining her coming back.
Memories are worse than bullets.

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.

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

NaPoWriMo Day 21: Erasure

This poem is a response to the NaPoWriMo prompt for Day 21.

Our prompt for today (optional, as always) is an old favorite – the erasure! This involves taking a pre-existing text and blacking out or erasing words, while leaving the placement of the remaining words intact.

I have taken the first page of the book “Shadow of the Wind” by Carlos Ruiz Zaffon:

I still remember the day my father took me to the Cemetery
of Forgotten Books for the first time. It was the early
summer of 1945, and we walked through the streets of a
Barcelona trapped beneath ashen skies as dawn poured over
Rambla de Santa Monica in a wreath of liquid copper.
‘Daniel, you mustn’t tell anyone what you’re about to see
today,’ my father warned. ‘Not even your friend Tomas. No
one.’
‘Not even Mummy?’
My father sighed, hiding behind the sad smile that
followed him like a shadow all through his life.
‘Of course you can tell her,’ he answered, heavyhearted.
‘We keep no secrets from her. You can tell her everything.’
Shortly after the Civil War, an outbreak of cholera had
taken my mother away. We buried her in Montjuic on my fourth
birthday. The only thing I can recall is that it rained all
day and all night, and that when I asked my father whether
heaven was crying, he couldn’t bring himself to reply. Six
years later my mother’s absence remained in the air around
us, a deafening silence that I had not yet learned to stifle
with words. My father and I lived in a modest apartment on
Calle Santa Ana, a stone’s throw from the church square. The
apartment was directly above the bookshop, a legacy from my
grandfather, that specialized in rare collectors’ editions
and secondhand books – an enchanted bazaar, which my father
hoped would one day be mine.