LONELY IN THE MIDDLE OF THE STATION

“I would rather participate in Life than write a 100 stories” Thomas Mann

Lonely in the middle of the station

Sitting, waiting, watching, observing, yearning

Intensely private and privately intense 

Attempt to ignore a flicking flux of state 

As I get up and make my way to Platform 8

 

My static and solitary peregrinations

Cyclical deliberations

 

Looking and longing for destination that doesn’t exist 

And never will

 

Three-fold a thousand souls

Wildly eclectic 

Serenity in the hectic

 

Hungry for truth 

Yet an appetite for ignorance

Rumbles and persists.


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Real life as Theatre

As well as my own observations during my many commutes this idea comes loosely inspired by Charlie Kaufman’s Synecdoche, New York (a fantastic film, which I could wax lyrical about for many hours) and one man’s attempt to document his own life through a quixotic theatre project …

 

In short, it examines (badly) with the immediacy and spontaneity of real life being akin to a higher form of performance (“free will is your playwright”). Because when you’re people watching in a itinerant, bustling trains station such as London’s Victoria and contrasted with an item of carefully pre-meditated media (A play and/or film and less so than a piece of music) where’s the difference? Our senses and our consciousnesses are the auteurs of the  subjectivised world we choose to create. This poem is dedicated to this notion (Apologies for the pretentiousness of this idea, but I like it).

 

Sound hackneyed

but the whole World is a stage

 

Lonely lives of quiet desperation

Seeking connection,

and disconnection

 

It transcends age

Observers and voyeurs, observing and receiving infinite free shows

Detached and debased

We’re all acting

(Aren’t we?)

as the thin veneer is scrapped away

to reveal  a snarling, nihilistic beast.

 

No artifice

Nothing superfluous

 

Life itself is the greatest magnum opus never preformed

But it’s being preformed right now:

Limitless locations and impromptu indefiniteness

Forget the Pinteresque, these pauses are real

(Oh, whatever Trite defines that to be) 

 

Improvisation and realism are smashed from their stalls of intellectual affectations

(They live the definition)

Mere atoms colliding as the facades are for-ever and ever, ever

Present.

When real life is Theatre.

 

We’re all frauds and Thespians

Charlatans and Shakespeareans !

(Albeit unconscious) 

 

Free will governed idiocy is your playwright

When Real life becomes Theatre

(That’s now)