Strange.

Why 
Are we here
In this city
With its big, sparkly, neon
Artificiality
When we could be
Sleeping
Underneath the stars
And the quiet moon
Why
Do we measure
Time, if it only serves
To destroy us
It will deal cards of misery
If we do not use it
The way the others are
We are delusional, thinking watches
Are more important than our lives
Why
Must we ridicule
If we are imperfect
And if each
Is perfect within himself
To a fault
Why
Do we concentrate on what could
Have been
Instead of what is
But reality is too hurtful, too
Intense for our liking
Which is
Why
We live in our dream worlds,
Wondering when this world
Will take notice of us, which is
Why
It is strange 
That we have come so far
It is strange 
That we are not yet numb
It is strange
That we have still hope
It is strange
That we have been through
So much, even though it is
Insignificant in the scale of the universe
It is strange
How we believe the universe
Cannot exist without an observer
We are so naïve, and yet
So wise
It is strange
How our lives are so fraught with suffering
But when we die, we remember only the good parts
Why
Do we think we are strange
We are human.

~Vruta Gupte.





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