I finally finished reading T.S. Eliot's The Waste Land at some point last night--I got exhausted reading this poem, and during the process I felt I read it through a thick layor of mist. 'April is the cruelest month' haha, I've got this done in the right month.
One introduction says 'This is a poem about spiritual dryness, about the kind of existence in which no regenerating belief gives significance and value to people's daily activities, sex brings no fruitfulness, and death heralds no resurrection.'
If you want to try to imagine what I felt while reading it, go read this poem. And then tell me if you agree this is about spiritual dryness. I feel like reading more about Upanishad and listen to more Wagner.
And 'Shantih shantih shantih'