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The Philosopher on the Train
Do you wonder
he would ask
what true reality is?
The train passed
the next tunnel
throwing us into
darkness as I listened
with no response, so
he persisted,
Who is to say we are
truly here, that we
look as we appear?
Mayhaps it is all illusion
I wondered to myself how
many other ears he has stolen
while gazing out the window
blurred scenery passed, and
thus I would reply,
If not here, where else should we be?
Startled he turned and looked
abashed that I dare would
be so blind.
We could be in test tubes
or a wasteland,
even the Garden of Eden,
walking in dreams implanted,
we could be a mind with no body.
I watched the of faces
reading, sleeping, or otherwise
engaged, and for a moment I
envied them, but something came
to mind, a thought a moment to
agitate him.
If we were illusions why
do there exist imperfections?
He treated me as a child,
shallow, and naïve,
perhaps because he had no explanation
though he would pretend.
There could be glitches, like
computer bugs, or perhaps
they are self-imposed for reasons
we cannot understand.
I heard the wheels screech
and this the train would
lurch to a halt and without
sympathy I rose.
This is my stop, I said
and was lost in the crowd.
5:11 PM - 12/9/2006 -
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