People swarm and swell And form a dumb mass Of bodies to fill the train Their vital signs are sound Except—they are dead And there are too many of them In this hell hole of a train Don’t they have somewhere else To be—or un-be—these undead? Like, I don’t know— Home, for instance? I’m open
Elbow to elbow | Thigh to thigh The guy on a packed bus | Sitting next to me No | On top of me He’s in my personal space | I’m in his Hardly humans, more pigs | In slaughterhouse no. five Thrown together by chance | Forced to intimacy With strangers | We are
I don’t even know what the title of the post means (but I can’t be bothered figuring out a more meaningful one). What is it, to be where you’re meant to be? Who does the meaning? I don’t know. I know who doesn’t do the meaning though: me. (Also, god, because I’m godless and faithless.) I’m
Sleep is when You’re awake, but unaware Or comatose, and oblivious Or dead, not a care Sleep takes The pains Out of all things Who’d want to be up Not me Let us sleep No flowers By request
I’m apolitical. Nay. I’m anti-political. I suspected that my country was holding a parliamentary election one of these days, and my fears were confirmed when I retrieved a set of ballots from my postbox. It was a bulky envelope bulging with two or three dozen ballots, one for each party running. I was unsure what
To take a break from contemplating suicide, I thought I’d brainstorm some ideas to stay alive instead. That’s my notion of testing the power of positive psychology. I believe I’m doing it right, theoretically, but really, I’m not feeling it. Let’s go through the exercise though. Here’s a bunch of random reasons why avoid suicide.
Part of WordPress’s writing course Finding Everyday Inspiration. Here’s a semi-free-writing exercise on the metaphysical topic Why I Write aka Why I Even Exist, which will spiral down to bleak existentialism (Warning, warning), however, relieved by sardonic bites on the way. I will list a succession of reasons why I might write and will test
The future starts in the past The past ends in the future Your first rites turn into your last The moment you cease to nurture Cherish yourself as the first No one knows you but you How you bury in you the worst And shy away from the best too The worst ordeal