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 train in the wee hours of 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.
― Heart of Darkness
Floral words of Purity, Sweetness, Majesty
The Pure Love of the Chaste Maiden
Flowered into the Pristine Beauty
Of Celestial Grace of Queen
highest of the Archangels, the Dominions,
The Powers, and the Principalities.
How can you be so sure
If your love will endure?
My thoughts tonight are
As tangled as my hair.
A day’s work is finished -in Adventure
Tasks are fulfilled – in Suspense
Tales are told – in Literature
Truth is lived – in Experience.
Author’s Note: Office work is undeniably uniformly cosmopolitan and universal: Keyboards, Documents, Phones, Letters, Bosses, Colleagues, Visitors, Meetings, Deadlines, etc… Fulfilling daily tasks every new day is like undertaking the proverbial twelve labors of Hercules in one way or another however I deem it fit . Or I can also relate it to Perseus’s task of killing Medusa in the sense that I must tackle any obstacles in accomplishing what unexpected tasks I am assigned to on a short notice under many deadlines. It’s a classic case of life imitating art in which my performance adumbrates what role I can play the best even without scripts but with what I have. Then there is always tomorrow, God willing, and I look to tomorrow because the Gospel also consoles my well-spent day thus: “Therefore do not be anxious about tomorrow, for tomorrow will be anxious for itself. Sufficient for the day is its own trouble.” How comforting and pacifying it is to lull a tempest of angst, premonition and existential vertigo.
P.S I light a cigarette as a disciple of Zoroaster, worshiping sacred fire, and a student of Prometheus, who taught mortals how to kindle fire and use it for the benefit of Mankind. It’s a prerogative of a human being. Apes might simulate semblance of motion, but not the dexterity of manipulating fire and the delight of sensation. Deleterious -yes – but pleasurable and irresistible.