Blog #3

Near the end of Eliot’s “The Waste Land” he writes “These fragments I have shored against my ruin”. In the spirit of Eliot’s version of the world, write a poem or a short prose passage that uses this line as its opening. 

INVENTING REALITY

These fragments I have shored against my ruin conspire against me. The beams placed here long ago to uphold my existence have eroded, ensuring the demise of my sanity. As I sit here, sulking in the pitifulness of my afflictions, I reflect upon the world in its current state: isolated, infected and irreparable. 

“It can be repaired”, said Hope.

“Go away. I’m trying to live in reality”, I said as I beckoned her to leave.

“I can help you invent reality”, she replied. 

I gestured for her to leave me alone. Finally, I can see the world in its true form. 

The clouds taunt me. Look! Can you see how free they are? But wait, they move along with every movement I make, they’re beckoning me to follow, to reach out and hold onto them. Oh to be upheld by the clouds, flying above them as I venture to unforeseen declarations of living. It truly is blissful up here. 

“That sounds nice”, Hope said.

“Wait. No, no, no. This isn’t real”, I exclaimed as I once more gestured for her to leave me alone. 

‘Real’ will never re engage with ‘reality’. To crave true connections with anyone is an act of naivety for the cyclical nature of isolation prevents human contact from contacting anyone! With my mind acting as the warden, guarding the entrance to the reality within, a prison of despondency exists beneath the skin of the human I am. Shed! Cast out the gloominess of the present and instead capture the radiance of the clouds. Fill it with the notion of promise. 

Joyful laughter erupted from Hope. 

“Wait. No, no, no. This isn’t real!”, I exclaimed again, “Go away Hope, you’re distracting me”. 

Memories used to be my safe haven but even they have conspired against me. Involved in an act of treachery, I watch as they mockingly throw ravaging traps of fire at my current burdens. It was as if they were saying, “Look, don’t you remember when….how happy you were….you can’t do this now. You can’t escape reality”. 

Quiet! I must silence my own inner monologue. Before I know it, I am drowning in the murkiness of my delusions, the brief delusion of believing that life may come back to the barren land I barricade myself within. Delusions fade and I can see myself once more in my true form, that is, anguish trapped in a youthful frame. All I can do is view the desolation of the world with my mask firmly placed on. Which mask? I will leave that up to your imagination. 

Hope was never a person but rather a fragment that I had shored against my ruin. Although it eroded over time, it tried to repair itself and assert its presence. Do I accept or reject it?  Do I dare invent reality? 

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