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(Source: im-not-fuking-perfect)

sajiahn:

A bleak account of a dormant life, T.S. Eliot’s dramatic monologue, “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” centers around the inmost meanderings of an anxious, isolated middle-aged man. Eliot’s persona—Prufrock—ambles around dismal streets, cloaked by both the surrounding fog and his inner timidity. As Prufrock wanders the sunset streets, a smoky “yellow” haze spreads across the city. It moves like a cat, rubbing and licking the city landmarks it shrouds as it drifts “into the corners of the evening”. Prufrock’s own character reflects that of the fog. Like a timid cat, he looks into “window-panes”— slots in society—yet never enters, instead spending all his time trying to decide whether to participate or stay back. He “[licks]” and “[lingers]” many a time—the repetitiveness of his actions underlined by the sequential alliteration in “licked”, “lingered”, and “let”—visiting the same places and encountering the same situations, but never taking part.. Tedious in nature and unfalteringly routine, Prufrock’s life lacks any decisive action to bring change.     Self-consigned to the corners of the social order, Prufrock lives not as society’s prisoner, but as both his own captive and guard. His many experiences searching for the right niche always end the same way— he abstains from entering or settling into a role, lest he allow the “soot” of people’s judgments to fall “upon [his] back”. Without fail, Prufrock’s refrains constantly lead him to his own arms, “curled” and “asleep” in the house of his solitude, alone and separate—yet secure in the only place he trusts.

Blahblahblah!

Replace “Prufrock” with appropriate pronouns relevant to yourself.

jollyandy:

It’s called swagbending.