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Anton Stonelake Sep 2018
At the unknown railway station
all that I know,
and all that know of me,
has been left behind.

I am as the wide-eyed boy
at the window of a terrarium,
seeing life from behind panes of glass.

It is an odd,
blissful sensation.

A detachment of life from life situation
leaving me in an instant
inexplicably light.

Yet abruptly I fall solemn,
turning my face into my hands.

For revealed through its temporary absence
is a glimpse the true weight of ’I’.
A poem about a short-lived experience standing outside life looking in
Anton Stonelake Sep 2018
Perceptions of identity in internal conflict grow by the shared fear of being disproven.

Resistance, in the form of denial, turns into desperation and anxiety before it reluctantly ceases.

But sometimes it happens during the mental battle and human hardship that the most pressured of these perceptions fires a distress-rocket out of its protective trench.

Something instinctual in man appeals, and if need be demand an opportunity to express what has happened.

The signal often depicts itself in ways of expression already chosen at birth, without regard to the self-image's rigorous, albeit nervous defense.

And so the poet dictates,

the artist sings,

regardless if one never dared before, one dares now.

The feelings are preserved long after the battle has passed,  
thoughts fade out of memory,
lost in one of the eternally sealed archives of the organism.

Yet the fragment that made it out is a beautiful remnant, an undeniable testimony that a creation of the soul can leave man.
This text is about things created during hardship.
Its about a thought i had, that maybe the things we create are the expression of our internal processes, needing to be heard by someone.
Anton Stonelake Sep 2018
Identity is a trial being fought out in the courtroom of the mind.

Weary eyes and documents held high.

The two attorneys in endless controversy;

fear and hope.

A booming voice echoes in halls of mahogany;

”My dear jury, I present to you the latest self-evaluation from the world of man!”

And all to answer a question that never needed an answer;

”Am I enough?”
Anton Stonelake Sep 2018
-October 17, 2230

White marble and the vitalizing smell of chemicals.

Our light and evenly coloured avenue, straight and decisive, reaches the distant horizon.

And all without trying.

The clear autumn sky, sterile and wonderful is well fitting our day of celebration, is it not!

In front, rows upon rows of men glowing with pride and dressed as myself, (why do I waste paper on the axiomatic….) move swiftly and evenly along to the beat, oh so evenly...

And arms move out and up on every beat.

For our jubilee has come, and a hundred years have passed since the necessary (and by them voluntary!) extermination of citizengroup 3.

Oh, whoever might read this joyous note of mine, what a day to be!

A poem heavily inspired by Yevgeny Zamyatin's dystopian novel WE
Anton Stonelake Sep 2018
It is cold.

With my back tilted against bricks, I look out over display windows at night.

Large glass windows extend along the street's parked cars and shine, even though the customers since long are sleeping, or lie reflecting, embedded in the darkness of the city.

In the same window stand headless figures in noble lines.

They turn out for the night dressed in suits, headless, beautiful people.

My eyes subconsciously look for the shape of the human face when I meet with a glance.

Behind boxes and decoration stands a boy with beautiful clothes and white plastic for eyes.

Childhood's earliest festivities come back:
Feasts, galas, family reunions dressed in the same stiff clothes.

And like the boy, I too was surrounded by beautiful people without faces.

— The End —