Dis-topia
There is no sign proclaiming the entrance to Dis-topia. No, that would actually debase the existence of the place itself. Nor are there any maps of the surroundings, and in fact any attempts to map such a place are futile. You see, in order to traverse this windswept prairie of existence, you must first learn the meaning of the name ‘”Dis-topia.”
“Dis” was the Roman name for the underworld, after the first deity ruling Hell, known as Dispater, or “Father of the Celts” Is it a paradox that such a simple word can mean both the epitome of death and the epitome of life? Perhaps then, it is reasonable that another Roman definition of Dis as a prefix labels it as a dualist force, capturing both positive and negative.
“Topia” is the more mortal portion of the setting of “Utopia”, an imaginary island of perfection. Whereas the Utopia is an ideal world, the Dis-topia is far from ideal, but hardly the antithesis. The significance of “topia” is to explain that this dis-topia is wholly surreal and an epitomized “island of its own.”
And that about explains it. Without further word take my hand as I guide you through this land, this Dis-topia…
Grey is the color that awaits you in this land. Abandoned hulks, scattered cinder blocks, and superior above all the forever overcast skies envelope the world in grey. Even the beams of sunlight that manage to sneak past the clouds are merely a light silver. A haze drifts lazily at about waist level, and the rebar sticking out of the ground almost appears to be a bamboo forest in the depths of the Orient, if you let your mind wander. Smells assail you as well: the faint smell of gasoline, intoxicating yet revolting; the primal scent of water vapor that usually occurs before rainfall; moth balls, turpentine and camphor; grass, cedar and earth: coming together to create a mixture which is somewhat, but not entirely, human.
Muted noises herald from unknown areas– the whir of motors, the wind through reeds, the songs of the cicada, the whine of servos– work together in harmony to create an eerie euphony. Walking on through the surroundings, you experience the gritty feeling of calyx– the crumbly substance tracks your prints like snow. Structures haphazardly arranged by some unknown force perilously collapse as you continue on, issuing great clouds of billowing dust which simply conforms with the swirling mists.
As you travel onward, the remnants of previous civilizations disappear entirely until a savanna lies around you, endless, unfathomable, bland. Arid soil lacking an eon of rain has the same texture as the concrete you just traversed, tufts of grass springing out of the soil like daggers, trees sprouting out of the ground look like a disembodied hands. Fog continues drifting with the unabated wind, meanwhile you stand marveling at how such a perfect, yet incredibly dull world can exist. There is something somewhat unreal about the perfection of such a muted lifeless existence. For this realm is what lies between the artificial and the human, the living and the dead, the beautiful and the twisted, the perfect and the flawed, the black and the white. Welcome to my Dis-topia.
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