What is it like to step into the land of the dead? For a fleeting moment, I was transported there. I got a glimpse of the life I once lived, a remembrance of the many debilitating weaknesses I had, that I can so neatly define now. And I’ll tell you what happened when I step into the land of the dead.
The beings there are shadows of half-formed thoughts - flimsy, unsubstantial. The hollow men of Eliot’s poem. Leaning together, headpieces filled with straw. When they whisper together, their voices are quiet and meaningless. “Shape without form, shade without colour,/Paralysed force, gesture without motion”. Eliot has been there too. They speak not of the human condition, or anything that requires much thought. Their voices are so entwined with elements of social domination, bullying, bitterness, shallow thoughts - scarcely leaving space for anything else.
(I found this pretentious twaddle in my drafts folder on Tumblr. Must be written a few years ago. It is so pretentiously dramatic, but I thought it's sort of interesting to post it here. I don't even remember which exact event inspired this. God, what was I thinking? Maybe that's why it was in the drafts folder. Interesting, nonetheless.)
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