The Divine Comedy on The Train To Budapest
A vision in three realms
Canto I – In the Middle of the Offline Way
The WiFi wasn’t working.
No signal, no scroll, no screen to melt into.
We were on the way to Budapest,
a train winding through a Europe half-asleep,
and she — eleven years old, amused, defiant —
looked down at the black mirror of her phone and said,
“So what now?”
On it were the fragments I had prepared —
old voices, downloaded in a rush of good intentions:
Greek myths, psychology, a history of wine,
and, tucked somewhere in the middle,
The Divine Comedy.
She flicked through the titles like cards in a deck.
“Comedy,” she said, her eyes lighting up.
“Let’s listen to that. Comedy’s always good.”
I almost said something, almost warned her —
that this wasn’t Eddie Murphy, wasn’t slapstick,
wasn’t the kind of laughter that makes you breathe easier.
But I didn’t.
Because what is Dante, if not the first to laugh
not at sin, but through it?
She pressed play.
And so, not in a dark wood —
but in a train seat, with Austria passing by,
and a small, sharp girl holding a borrowed voice in her hand —
our journey began.
INFERNO – Where the Fire is Cold
Hell begins not with flames,
but with forgetting.
We descend through circles not drawn in stone,
but etched in behavior —
the kind that calcifies the heart
one compromise at a time.
First Circle: The Echo Chamber
These are the ones who only listened to themselves.
Their punishment?
An eternity of agreement.
They speak, and the walls nod.
They shout, and the void replies, “Exactly.”
Ancient philosophers who feared uncertainty,
modern podcasters who never asked a question
they didn’t already have the answer to.
They drink their own voices like wine
and call it truth.
Their punishment?
An eternity of agreement.
They speak, and the walls nod.
They shout, and the void replies, “Exactly.”
Ancient philosophers who feared uncertainty,
modern podcasters who never asked a question
they didn’t already have the answer to.
They drink their own voices like wine
and call it truth.
Second Circle: The Hustlers
These are the souls who never rested —
the ones who believed sleep was failure
and burnout was a badge.
They once said,
“I’ll rest when I’m dead.”
Now they do.
They run in circles,
chasing goals that vanish when touched.
We see a Roman merchant
counting coins into an empty jar.
Next to him, a startup founder
checking a smartwatch that no longer ticks.
the ones who believed sleep was failure
and burnout was a badge.
They once said,
“I’ll rest when I’m dead.”
Now they do.
They run in circles,
chasing goals that vanish when touched.
We see a Roman merchant
counting coins into an empty jar.
Next to him, a startup founder
checking a smartwatch that no longer ticks.
Third Circle: The Mask-Wearers
Here are the ones who performed
so long they forgot the sound of their own voice.
In life, they smiled when they wanted to scream.
They were praised for being polite, balanced, nice.
Inside, they were drowning.
Their punishment?
A thousand masks,
none of them fitting.
They try them on,
but every mirror shows someone else.
so long they forgot the sound of their own voice.
In life, they smiled when they wanted to scream.
They were praised for being polite, balanced, nice.
Inside, they were drowning.
Their punishment?
A thousand masks,
none of them fitting.
They try them on,
but every mirror shows someone else.
Fourth Circle: The Cynics
Here walk the cool ones —
ironic, detached, too clever for conviction.
They mocked love, faith, struggle,
anything that didn’t come with a punchline.
Now they wander a dry land
where nothing matters.
They are not tortured.
They are just untouched.
They pass the passionate and roll their eyes.
And that is their hell:
they feel nothing, even here.
Here walk the cool ones —
ironic, detached, too clever for conviction.
They mocked love, faith, struggle,
anything that didn’t come with a punchline.
Now they wander a dry land
where nothing matters.
They are not tortured.
They are just untouched.
They pass the passionate and roll their eyes.
And that is their hell:
they feel nothing, even here.
PURGATORIO – The Slow Re-Membering
Purgatory isn’t punishment.
It’s the long, aching work of waking up.
You see people here
still raw from earth,
carrying the debris of their choices.
They are not condemned.
They are not saved.
They are trying to become whole.
It’s the long, aching work of waking up.
You see people here
still raw from earth,
carrying the debris of their choices.
They are not condemned.
They are not saved.
They are trying to become whole.
First Terrace: The Apologizers
They say sorry before they speak,
sorry for existing,
sorry for wanting.
They bow so deeply
they’ve forgotten how to stand.
Here, they practice lifting their heads.
Each step up the mountain,
they must say one true sentence
without flinching.
sorry for existing,
sorry for wanting.
They bow so deeply
they’ve forgotten how to stand.
Here, they practice lifting their heads.
Each step up the mountain,
they must say one true sentence
without flinching.
Second Terrace: The Status Seekers
These were the ones who confused being seen
with being real.
They built identities like résumés,
measured life in likes, applause, approval.
Here, they wear transparent cloaks
stitched from every compliment they ever received.
The wind blows through them.
Their work is to sit still
until they can name themselves
without using a single title.
with being real.
They built identities like résumés,
measured life in likes, applause, approval.
Here, they wear transparent cloaks
stitched from every compliment they ever received.
The wind blows through them.
Their work is to sit still
until they can name themselves
without using a single title.
Third Terrace: The Bitter Saints
People who did the right things
for the wrong reasons.
They served others,
but quietly resented them.
They sacrificed,
but kept a secret ledger.
Now they write down
what they actually wanted.
Not to accuse.
Just to know.
for the wrong reasons.
They served others,
but quietly resented them.
They sacrificed,
but kept a secret ledger.
Now they write down
what they actually wanted.
Not to accuse.
Just to know.
Fourth Terrace: The Control Freaks
They clung to plans, structure, perfection.
They feared chaos more than death.
Now they are asked to walk
without a map.
To take one step
not knowing where the next will land.
Some are mothers.
Some are kings.
All are learning to trust
what they cannot tame.
They feared chaos more than death.
Now they are asked to walk
without a map.
To take one step
not knowing where the next will land.
Some are mothers.
Some are kings.
All are learning to trust
what they cannot tame.
And so the path bends upward
toward the fire that heals.
Where once they tried to control life,
now they are learning to feel it.
toward the fire that heals.
Where once they tried to control life,
now they are learning to feel it.
PARADISO – Where the Fire Doesn’t Burn
It wasn’t golden.
It wasn’t clean.
Paradiso, when we reached it,
looked less like a palace
and more like the inside of a life well lived.
There were no trumpets.
No thrones.
Only people who had stopped pretending.
Here, a man sits by a quiet fire.
His hands are calloused, not from war,
but from holding on when everything said let go.
He doesn’t speak in lessons.
He tells stories without morals.
He has failed.
And loved.
And failed again.
And somehow, he has remained.
He has become his own myth —
not the one written by bards,
but the kind remembered by daughters
when they’re trying to be brave.
Paradiso is full of such men and women.
Some are artists who never published.
Some are mothers who carried children through silence.
Some are old friends who showed up after everyone else left.
No one here is perfect.
They are simply no longer at war
with themselves.
It wasn’t clean.
Paradiso, when we reached it,
looked less like a palace
and more like the inside of a life well lived.
There were no trumpets.
No thrones.
Only people who had stopped pretending.
Here, a man sits by a quiet fire.
His hands are calloused, not from war,
but from holding on when everything said let go.
He doesn’t speak in lessons.
He tells stories without morals.
He has failed.
And loved.
And failed again.
And somehow, he has remained.
He has become his own myth —
not the one written by bards,
but the kind remembered by daughters
when they’re trying to be brave.
Paradiso is full of such men and women.
Some are artists who never published.
Some are mothers who carried children through silence.
Some are old friends who showed up after everyone else left.
No one here is perfect.
They are simply no longer at war
with themselves.
And when the voice stopped,
the train pulled into the station.
Budapest unfolded like a painting.
She looked up from her phone, blinking.
“That was… not what I expected,” she said.
And I nodded.
Because that’s the point of a comedy —
not to amuse,
but to remind us
that even the darkest paths
can lead us somewhere luminous.
In Dante’s time, a comedy was a story
that begins in crisis
and ends in grace.
Not because the world is kind —
but because the human soul can be.
Epilogue
Later, as we walked through the streets of Budapest,
with the Danube slow beside us
and the day warming the stones,
she asked:
“But why is it called divine?”
“There’s so much horror in it.”
And I paused.
Because she was right.
If the worldly order swallows souls —
if it feeds on inauthenticity,
if it rewards obedience and punishes depth —
how can it be divine?
And Dante’s answer —
and maybe mine, maybe yours —
is subtle, brutal, and wise:
the train pulled into the station.
Budapest unfolded like a painting.
She looked up from her phone, blinking.
“That was… not what I expected,” she said.
And I nodded.
Because that’s the point of a comedy —
not to amuse,
but to remind us
that even the darkest paths
can lead us somewhere luminous.
In Dante’s time, a comedy was a story
that begins in crisis
and ends in grace.
Not because the world is kind —
but because the human soul can be.
Epilogue
Later, as we walked through the streets of Budapest,
with the Danube slow beside us
and the day warming the stones,
she asked:
“But why is it called divine?”
“There’s so much horror in it.”
And I paused.
Because she was right.
If the worldly order swallows souls —
if it feeds on inauthenticity,
if it rewards obedience and punishes depth —
how can it be divine?
And Dante’s answer —
and maybe mine, maybe yours —
is subtle, brutal, and wise:
The world itself isn’t divine.
but the journey through it can be.
but the journey through it can be.