Poem: The New Hollow Ones

This poem is inspired partly by T.S. Elliot’s “The Hollow Men.” He was a great man who had an interesting life. Though my poem cannot touch his poem, I hope I can at least continue to do what he did: revealing the nature of the culture that surrounds us. Rest In Peace, Mr. Elliot.

The New Hollow Ones

(From the Elliot observatory)

We are the ones that believed the lie.

We were told that there is no meaning to life, no reason that we are here.

There is no God. We are merely insignificant specks of dust floating in a random universe that has no concern for us— a relativistic world where everything is fading away.

Life is fleeting. All we have are the moments—the moments of laughter and pleasure; moments of thrill and joy; moments of indulging our appetites—and then nothing.

We came out of nothing; we will return to nothing; we are nothing.

We were told we are just animals who are slightly more evolved than others, creatures whom are pulled by our genes to an inevitable conclusion, which some poets have termed “destiny,” but we know now it’s merely genetic impulses.

Look into our eyes and if they seem empty, it’s because they are. We are the hollow ones.

We don’t believe in morality unless there’s something in it for us. We don’t believe in sacrifice unless we can get it on sale. We live for temporary gratification in whatever form it might come in—the more flavors to choose from the better.

We are our own authority. We are independent and free, free to do whatever we desire. It’s healthy for the soul (if there was such a thing).

We believe that being young in heart means chasing after our childhood dreams and we refuse to grow up and to become like our parents. We live to escape responsibility.

We are addicts. Entertain us. But good luck we get bored easily, and there is nothing more loathsome and offensive, nothing more abominable than boredom.

We have no transcendent desires—we’re the hollow ones. We don’t believe in empathy. We don’t believe in anything except our own sense of self-esteem.

We are the hollow ones. Do not speak to us of hope, that belonged to a long-dead, barbaric age of superstition—we are beyond that. We know there is no rhyme or reason. The universe simply doesn’t care.

We are the hollow ones, the ones that believed the Lie.

“Hollow, Eerie, Lonely, Plucked!”

                                    —The Scarecrow

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