When it is this fear of falling behind
is what keeps us going,
even the pitstops on this journey back home
from the great unknown
requires a compass
to map the Second Star to the Right,
demands anxiety be disguised as wonderment;
like the days we traced the paths of glowworms
on windless nights in open fields
scanning the air from here to there
searching for a next blink somewhere.
"Wipe your hand across your mouth, and laugh;
The worlds revolve like ancient women
Gathering fuel in vacant lots."
T.S. Eliot, Preludes
A dusty bazaar at the end of the 4th platform
misty morning, signs of rain
fleeting emotions on unfamiliar faces,
standpoint matters, some loathe the skies in place of their forgetful minds;
scared of possibilities of drenched clothes
and smelly shoes on a Monday morning,
scared of a pending cold, cancelled plans
sick leaves and loaded work.
Existential crisis hits hard on days like these
reminds of a line from Preludes;
Seeing a vadai on a stranger's hand
wrapped in an expired newspaper with a heaty headline in block capitals,
one could get lost in a train of thoughts
swallow the sighs,
Ah
this burdensome existence
and newspapers in recycle bins,
going through hell
just to be returned in a new shape each time.
