Where Angels Dare: Reliving the Death Camps

Dread. Sinking into a mind state where no anguish can touch the mind frame. In these places life was not only lost, but taken, swept away as dust in the wind. These camps, these fields, these stories on the walls... a histroy unto itself. Remove the situation, remove the politics, remove the history, remove the stereotypes, remove everything but the person. The individual. What is left? Dread.

What is it this place has seen, what is it that this soils breathes, what was bread here for those who walked away to pass on through future actions. No sides, no teams, no reality, just individuals... just dread. The somber sense of the place is unmistakable, not just the facts bringing the senses to a height, but the energy. You can not deny such a force, it is there in every place you go. But here, in these lands, much more has passed. Dread.

I do not feel compassion, although you would think one would, but more intrigue, I am too far removed. But I am haunted, with the plight, the suffering, and the monsterism of the control. What lies in the deepest revelations of this for me? What lies so deep? Realisations of control, realisations of the ability of so few to manage the impressions of so many. Control of information, desire to be part of something, a league of similarities. This is not a new formation of society, but maybe the most basic principle of control. But here, in this dread, I find an example of the most extremes. The most dreaded.

Here, where angels dare tread.








no symbolism, or take on any events is intended here, no reference to actual people meant, no offence to anyone, more a look at a general realisation. The writer intends no offence, no meaning to indivuals, or no political statment with any imagery, this is a personal reflection on social actions.