Last Friday while discussing ideas on statistics projects and in the midst of Herfindahl index, as usual conversations shifted pace and we started talking about the plastic nature of human beings. This idea was particularly interesting because it suggested both the malleability of being plastic in an obvious way and also the fragility that comes attached with being plastic, the idea of being something non natural in some sense, molded into something else. And hence tonight or today morning I share this idea of the plastic human and write to the many who have shared there insight over the last couple of days, who have heard back from me and who have in someways always found a way to make things more real.
The Plastic Human
I was written out of a story book ending, the characters of a play that once rose and fell,
Who were captured in stories they were written somewhere, and yet were only for time to tell
My own existence questions me at time, do I come in boxes that are packed away,
Am I real when I only need to be , and the rest of the time am I tucked instead
The plastic human but sees and feels, he molds into the world, he fits everywhere,
He is among the many who closely sees, the words that aren't said and yet he seems to hear
He takes the road less traveled at times, he crosses the world when no one pays heed,
He is beyond a figure in the background wall, he is more than alive when you feel the need.
He drags his feet sometimes, he lives a lie, he sleeps comfortably in his bed at night,
While the many who can't find sleep go on looking for a reason, go on fighting a fight,
In the end my dear friend, we are all a bit too plastic to be true,
We are written in fictions better than we are , we are often far away from the simple truth
I fear the world where we glean to be unreal, when we model the changes we think we perceive,
Or do I know the perfect recipe in my head, do I know the perfect lie & have I learned to deceive?
Withered cobwebs on my window pane, the reminders of things that have come and gone,
And yet the plastic human,the fiction of this night, is found in summary of the day that hasn't begun
The Plastic Human
I was written out of a story book ending, the characters of a play that once rose and fell,
Who were captured in stories they were written somewhere, and yet were only for time to tell
My own existence questions me at time, do I come in boxes that are packed away,
Am I real when I only need to be , and the rest of the time am I tucked instead
The plastic human but sees and feels, he molds into the world, he fits everywhere,
He is among the many who closely sees, the words that aren't said and yet he seems to hear
He takes the road less traveled at times, he crosses the world when no one pays heed,
He is beyond a figure in the background wall, he is more than alive when you feel the need.
He drags his feet sometimes, he lives a lie, he sleeps comfortably in his bed at night,
While the many who can't find sleep go on looking for a reason, go on fighting a fight,
In the end my dear friend, we are all a bit too plastic to be true,
We are written in fictions better than we are , we are often far away from the simple truth
I fear the world where we glean to be unreal, when we model the changes we think we perceive,
Or do I know the perfect recipe in my head, do I know the perfect lie & have I learned to deceive?
Withered cobwebs on my window pane, the reminders of things that have come and gone,
And yet the plastic human,the fiction of this night, is found in summary of the day that hasn't begun
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