The Disease of the Hollow Men

We have all been programmed to believe that what we feel is “our” feelings, that our thoughts are “our” thoughts, and what we experience belongs to us alone. Fundamentally, we are programmed to believe that we – as identity- are some kind of monadic platform that contains the cause and the effect of our experiences – the sum total of the whole world we call “my life”. This obsession with “my” emotions and feelings and lifestyle, as if they are “valid”, as in worthwhile, is a modern invention that achieves the complete opposite of what it claims to want to achieve. Instead of affecting a feeling of freedom and self-expression, it actually creates a prison whose walls are continually contracting until the ego completely dissolves inside the world it once resisted so vehemently, like an old man who has given away all his power to the remote and T.V. screen. For many people, the end of life is the first time that they experience the lifting of the veil of illusion, and release that all that talk about the power of “me” and self-expression was a lie to conceal the fact that they were playing in a romper-room by themselves all along.

All of this is programming at a profoundly deep level. It is designed to reflect an entirely synthetic image (mask) of self into the lower consciousness. It isn’t until the awareness begins to feel uncomfortable with that mask, when the realization of its artificial nature begins to become clear. It is the case, in every consciousness, that identity is treated as if it were a given, an irrefutable object of attention that should never be questioned. That natural tendency, programmed into our lower consciousness, has today been abused by those who wish to use humanity for their own ends, instead of allowing them to flower into their potential. It is a principle of mind control that the human consciousness be completely isolated from its inner core, its light, the source that shines and leads us to our awakening, expansion, and true freedom and autonomy.

The Platonic dialogues, written nearly 500 years before Christ, were an attempt to ignite the awakening process from within the reader. They were not, as some schools of modern philosophy believe, presentations of so-called philosophical argument designed to prove some point in Plato’s mind or a practice of engaging in absurd and twisted arguments as some form of intellectual sweating to the oldies. No. Plato’s dialogues question the nature of things, the nature of various identities, such as strength, virtue, beauty, love, and knowledge. He never, however, wrote a dialogue that questioned “Me” or the “Ego”. At that time, ego hadn’t been programmed to be what it is today. In fact, the very word “I” seemed inconsequential at best, and was rarely used in terms of itself, but was instead always connected with everything around it, submerged into the swirling whirlpool of language, thought, and expression. For those who study the ancient language, nothing is more evident than the absorption of the subject into the world of the middle-passive. This is because the world, during that time, was perceived as infinitely more interesting than the “I” – which has today approached near the level of idolatry. At this point in time, it is often considered to be a a deep offense to use the passive form of a verb.

The ego doesn’t want to reveal its passivity, except if it serves as an argument in favor of its tyranny. The reason it doesn’t want to reveal its passivity, is because it is programmed to prevent itself from seeing the truth – that it does not belong to itself, that it is a slave of the highest order.

The modern ego is a medium that can create the illusion of otherness, and disconnection with the rest of the world. Its very nature has been designed to prevent and resist harmony, flow, and true dialogue with the people, places, and spirits of the world around it. Always on the lookout for getting involved in some kind of argument, or running away from the expectation of argument, the ego lives in conflict and designs its life from there. It drags the consciousness along, absorbing it in its stories, explanations, its shallow understandings of the world and its insistence on always being right. It has no interest in the light, the questions that seem to question its very existence, anything that would put an end to its drama of hunter and hunted. The ego either aims to dissolve into the world, ever trying to belong to this “other-thing” it has itself unwittingly generated, or it wishes to conquer it, persuade it, make it more like itself and amenable to its desires. It is unfortunately the case that ego has twisted education into being some form of persuasion, a method of creating mimicry, born from a desire to see only itself in the form of other people. Knowledge, by the ego, has become tedium and repetitive and brutal, something children would naturally resist, if their parents haven’t yet removed all nature from them. It is no small feat that the standard school system is unbelievably boring and shallow in its presentation of what it calls reality. Children either obey the method and serve it, or reject it and become eligible for certain psychological disease categories, like ADHD, ADD, anxiety, depression, hyperactivity, or whatever else the system has generated by places the child in a prison called “school”. Once the parents discover the reason for their child’s difficulty in the School of Ego, they feel comforted and comfortable in whatever they perceive the must do to “fix” their child.

Such is the distortion that ego has become due to some form of wicked virus. All viruses are a result of decay. Nietzsche made the remark that all ideas carried in the head by ego are mummifications, dead matter, animated decadence. In that sense, the ego that refuses to die, is the flower that refuses to let its petals fall. And yet, despite all the efforts of the flower to survive and to continue its bright color for years beyond its due, the virus and the sickness overwhelm it. Disease is the result of not letting go of what must be let go, of what has expired and no longer meant to be.

Disease doesn’t have to be prevented. Disease never has to arrive.

But we all know that modern humanity has no respect for death and is instead obsessed with diseases and the fear of diseases. It fears death most of all. That is why it is filled with death and dead things swarm all around it. Those who see the spirits know this calamity. Some of us spend our nights clearing out as much as we can.

The ego was meant to die, and the soul was meant to create anew. Modernity is the subversion of that statement. It wants the soul to die, and believes the ego is meant to recreate what is old.

The original intention of the ego is for it to grow expand, and ultimately be shed, like a snake sheds its skin. The ego is meant to be a beautiful flowering of the conscious mind, and like all flowers indicate that death is nigh. The ego is not the purpose of life, the thing that must survive at all costs. No, the ego is the swan song, the culmination of a created life that is ready to transform by letting it go, grow, and create a new one. The ego sings at its own rite of passage, at its transformation into nothingness. When a human being refers confidently to “me” and what’s good for “me”, they are operating on a certain frequency of energy, that separates themselves not only from the rest of the world, but from past and future. The ego believes that “I” is a continuity, a permanent and constant thing that must be improved on, expanded, and defended with no time limits other than a physical death that must be resisted at all costs. But when that same human being begins to see that the separation is an illusion, that the beauty of the rose that is ego, is that which must whither and fall, at that point, the rose bows in reverence as the ego begins to dissolve. The soul holds the dying petals in her and hand, and she gives them as gifts to the wind and earth, as she begins to reformulate her new life, and identity – her new ego! But each new ego is more expansive, and more encompassing and allowing than the last. The ego as a work of art: as a model for being in the world, for eventually embracing matter, and the subtle frequencies of ether. Eventually, the consciousness will reach a point where it will no longer even need the ego, and it will operate completely inside and from cosmic unity, merging back into wholeness. The last ego that it holds, something that Plato referred to as the final death, or the final body, is seen as simply a vessel, a home on earth, to house the soul, to ground it here, but to flow like the ocean flows. At that point, the ego is as a drop in the ocean, itself and not itself; existing and not existing at the same time. That is when we reach ultimate joy, bliss, nirvana. That is when a god can walk on earth, and gives light to all the little children who play with the daffodils in the sunshine, educating them in their ways.

The virus that runs through earth and human today, has been designed to keep people at very low frequency ego states. It is a form of mind control, and it is nearing its end. The unobstructed ego natures are falling with their timelines, and yes it is causing much death and disease, fear and panic, anger and confusion and a sense of despair. The confusion and fear is understandable. I will often see different versions of the same person present at the same time. Most people are still dominated by egos constructed between ages five and eighteen – flowers that should have been gifted to the earth a long time ago. The childhood years, as we know, are pivotal areas of growth, but once modern kids become young “adults”, they stop their growth and enter the “work force”, carrying all that dead matter with them. There are no ceremonies, no rites of passage, no acknowledgement of ends, no mourning, to respect for the dead that must be guided to death. They have failed to release lifetimes of egos, but they instead find purpose, goals, and definition for their current ego. They are encouraged to “be themselves” and not to let anyone stop them, to do whatever they can in the name of self-love. The illusions go on and on. The calcification of that period prevents the death of that final egoic form, and – for many – this has continued on even until the dissolution of their body. Their psyche has actually at this point become quite crowded, as they have not been trained or encouraged to “let go” of even the previous egos that developed during their younger years. Their final ego actually contains and manages fragments of former identities who often show themselves more or less based on time, location, and mood. They marry a version of their mother, or their father in order to recreate the comfort of a young ego that still lives through them. Their friendships serve the same purpose as their middle-school friends served. Their job or their hobby may be the only light of possibility of deep growth in their lives. Their goals are limited to the fears they held in high school. The anger of the grandparent seems to flare up during dinner time. When they are alone, they feel and deep sense of anxiety and hopelessness. Before they know it, they are on the cusp of old age, and they notice that they have actually become one of their parents. They shrug, for they are too tired of life to care anymore. This is the end. This is the wasteland. This is going out with a whimper.

    The Hollow Men - by T.S. Eliot

    We are the hollow men
    We are the stuffed men
    Leaning together
    Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
    Our dried voices, when
    We whisper together
    Are quiet and meaningless
    As wind in dry grass
    Or rats' feet over broken glass
    In our dry cellar
    Shape without form, shade without colour,
    Paralysed force, gesture without motion;
    Those who have crossed
    With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom
    Remember us-if at all-not as lost
    Violent souls, but only
    As the hollow men
    The stuffed men.


    Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
    In death's dream kingdom
    These do not appear:
    There, the eyes are
    Sunlight on a broken column
    There, is a tree swinging
    And voices are
    In the wind's singing
    More distant and more solemn
    Than a fading star.
    Let me be no nearer
    In death's dream kingdom
    Let me also wear
    Such deliberate disguises
    Rat's coat, crowskin, crossed staves
    In a field
    Behaving as the wind behaves
    No nearer-
    Not that final meeting
    In the twilight kingdom


    This is the dead land
    This is cactus land
    Here the stone images
    Are raised, here they receive
    The supplication of a dead man's hand
    Under the twinkle of a fading star.
    Is it like this
    In death's other kingdom
    Waking alone
    At the hour when we are
    Trembling with tenderness
    Lips that would kiss
    Form prayers to broken stone.


    The eyes are not here
    There are no eyes here
    In this valley of dying stars
    In this hollow valley
    This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms
    In this last of meeting places
    We grope together
    And avoid speech
    Gathered on this beach of the tumid river
    Sightless, unless
    The eyes reappear
    As the perpetual star
    Multifoliate rose
    Of death's twilight kingdom
    The hope only
    Of empty men.


    Here we go round the prickly pear
    Prickly pear prickly pear
    Here we go round the prickly pear
    At five o'clock in the morning.
    Between the idea
    And the reality
    Between the motion
    And the act
    Falls the Shadow
                                    For Thine is the Kingdom
    Between the conception
    And the creation
    Between the emotion
    And the response
    Falls the Shadow
                                    Life is very long
    Between the desire
    And the spasm
    Between the potency
    And the existence
    Between the essence
    And the descent
    Falls the Shadow
                                    For Thine is the Kingdom
    For Thine is
    Life is
    For Thine is the
    This is the way the world ends
    This is the way the world ends
    This is the way the world ends
    Not with a bang but a whimper.

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