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