Inexplicable Funk.

The images that greet me with my morning coffee

Are of mutilated bodies, murderers with a smile.

I feel a twinge of pity, and an overwhelming anger

But I turn to the meaningless pages inside

Which talk of pretentious people

And their exaggerated lifestyles.

The alerts I receive via sms during my work hours

Tell me that some school in the far reaches of civilization

Has been burnt, or bombed, or held hostage.

I feel sad for a moment, but I delete the message

And proceed to answer a friend’s call

Bordering so much on the mundane that

It wouldn’t have mattered if we never spoke at all.

On my way back home, when I take the bus

I hear of this lady whose son came back from a war

But the lines on her face did not seem happy

As her son came back to home, finally, in pieces.

I feel shocked and get off three stops earlier

And walk home, pretending to be watching shops

That sell things I know I should never want.

Finally, as I take to my bed, I watch some news

Only to realize, this time tragedy hit closer home.

It’s pointless, wasted and superficial

For me to feel anything now.

Should I block myself from any forms of communication

Ignoring the front page, the messages, the television

And insulate myself in a bubble and assume that life everywhere else

In the world, is as gifted as mine?

For I know, soon, that I shall be attuned to this.

With each bit of news that I hear, I listen less and less

With each image I look at, I turn blinder

And with every story I hear, the strings in my heart

Twang with perceptibly lesser sound and a non-existent echo.

Like it’s normal to see dead bodies, faces with caked blood,

Black-residues on exploded buses, freaky weather, and smiling murderers

When I have my morning coffee.

Rendering me stuck in such an inexplicable funk

Because soon enough I shall feel no more.

Soon I shall learn to say

It’s been a very normal day

Shruti Rao