In this world, everything is automated
no need for our fragile and gentle hands
to grace the products that we own.
The metal arms pinch and pull
seal and carve
heat and cool
package and ship
print and fill
hundreds, thousands, millions
just to satisfy our needs.
The train rumbles under my feet
and I look to my left, and a sense of stress crosses their face
and to my right?
a look of tiredness masking the truest of joy.
Across from me, a man is indulged in the present day politics
while a women further down is in another dimension with music.
Stare straight ahead and mind your own business.
If you see something, say only what’s necessary.
We’re headed one way to do our own thing
just like how packaged donuts give a lasting hug after a loss
how Kleenex dry your tears after a bad day
how you work for the money
sit somewhere and work for hours
interacting with people who are kind of friends
but not really but you would be down to get drinks with
but you wouldn’t tell them about
those thoughts you have.
In this world, everything feels automated
from the “hello” and “see you later”
and the commute to and from work
and the process to get your “perfect” life
waking, sleeping and repeating the process.
Is it all for nothing?
This summer, I’m trying to build up the habit of waking up early and while I was able to wake up earlier, a thought occurred to me. What am I going to do now? I found myself browsing the Internet and watching those oddly satisfying videos. Some of them were mechanical and it got me thinking. Confession made: this poem was inspired by oddly satisfying videos. What gives! Watch them, you’ll feel oddly relaxed.
After watching those videos, I had another thought to me. We built machines to make things perfect for us. An engineer programmed the robotics and then a mechanic put them together. Before that, someone thought of a product to run through the machines. A CEO probably owns a company and there are many other managers who handle things. Someone definitely built the buildings that houses all the machines and products and there are most likely workers who do the final packing and surveying. And then, someone picked up a camera and decided to film it and viola, it made it to an oddly satisfying video compilation.
This poem is supposed to have an air of irony because of all the commodities we’re invested in, even the videos we watch to satisfy ourselves or make us laugh or cry. Everything just feels so automatic and monotonous, like there’s no differentiation from another day. And my main point with this poem is to recognize the automation and make some changes. There’s nothing wrong with it, but if everything is done routinely, what would distinguish us from robotics?
I’ll leave you with this question, Money can’t buy happiness, right?
Thanks for reading!