Thoughts of Former Memories

For the first post of the year, I wanted to write a poetic tangent of sorts. A posted filled to the brim with obscurity and quips that the reader can scarcely comprehend what has transpired in my mind. I like this style of writing. You must work as the reader to understand my thought-process. 
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What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow

Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,

You cannot say, or guess, for you know only

A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,

And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,

And the dry stone no sound of water. Only

There is shadow under this red rock

(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),

And I will show you something different from either

Your shadow at morning striding behind you

Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;

I will show you fear in a handful of dust.

-T.S. Eliot, The Wasteland

Being home is met with mixed feelings. What was originally thought to bring comfort and joy, has been wrought with complacency, frustration, and a totally lack of emotions. It is a veritable "ghost in the machine." Nostalgia, memories, and shadows of the past have filled up this past and have covered my eyes to the present. No longer do I feel a longing or a desire. All I can see is the past; the remnants of what was and the possibilities that dashed along the rocks. It is a forgotten place, where time has long since shown its face and where stagnancy overpowers the senses of the beholder. This has never been the case for any past visit, yet now, it is all I can feel. Remorseful is is that my heart feels nothing. No strings attached. Just a blank emptiness. 

A wasteland of forgotten memories; memories that latch onto the beholder, as shadows cling to the instep of man.