The Hollow Men

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.***

I'm sorry, Mr. Eliot. I don't feel hollow. I don't feel stuffed (except after a weekend at home, away from Food Service). I feel alive, I feel fluid, I feel happy. And I don't wish to look outside at the swirling snow
And the people walking by
In big coats and shapeless hats
And to think to myself
This is nothing.
I'm an English major, Mr. Eliot.
I'm going to Austria this fall.
I'm twenty years old, but not quite grown up.
My life is big.
And I'm sorry, but I simply don't feel hollow.

***From T.S. Eliot's "The Hollow Men"