Congress of commuters gather on a platform before the dawn,
reciting their daily credo of existential tasks in reverie,
swiveling their consciousness in hazy dreamy expectation
till the train from the dark arrives at the station of humanity.
Author’s Note: This poem is forthright in describing how I look at my fellow daily commuters on a train in the wee hours of the morning. My observation concludes that we commuters are half-awaken from slumber but wholly-assured of our purposes of performing our daily morning rituals of what we habitually do consciously or unconsciously, willfully or mechanically; that we all have destinations to disembark – be it considered workplaces or schools – where demands imposed upon our daily assignments await us to fulfill them. It may sound twee or hyperbole, but that’s the fundamental element of finding our meaning of existence – ego qua meaningfulness – as wisely propounded by Joseph Conrad herein.
I don’t like work–no man does–but I like what is in the work–the chance to find yourself. Your own reality–for yourself not for others–what no other man can ever know. They can only see the mere show, and never can tell what it really means.