The Three Ways of the Zombie
They walk among us, and most days, they are us.
Not the kind that crawl out of graves or gnaw at your neck. That would at least be honest. No, these zombies have pensions, gym cards, and subscription plans. They smile in video calls, buy eco friendly detergents, and file their taxes on time. Somewhere along the way, something hollowed them out, and the shell kept moving.
The philosophers saw this coming. They called them "P-Zombies", philosophical zombies. Beings who do everything a conscious person does, only without the inner light switched on. A sharp poke, a kiss, a sonata, nothing gets through. Just mimicry, smooth as protocol.
There are three main breeds, if you care to classify the living dead.
The behavioral zombie is the model citizen. Efficient, polite, busy. He doesn’t live; he performs life. He doesn’t feel; he just knows when to nod. You meet him at the office, in the committee, in the mirror at seven a.m. when you’re running late. He’s the triumph of social programming: all gestures, no pulse.
Then there is the neurological zombie, the high functioning shell. Everything fires as it should: neurons, synapses, schedules. The brain hums like a well oiled machine, but there’s nobody home. That’s the one you meet in the executive suite or at the self help seminar. His smile is factory issued. He’s optimized down to the cellular level, and still, the spark won’t catch.
Last, the soulless zombie, the oldest kind. He can quote scripture or Nietzsche, depending on the room. He’s a priest of systems, an evangelist for progress. But underneath, there’s no metaphysical ache, no sacred doubt. Just the hum of machinery where a conscience used to be.
Together, they run the world. They pass laws, sell ideologies, and even write philosophy papers about the mystery of consciousness, while missing the point entirely. Because to be a zombie isn’t to be stupid; it’s to have traded wonder for certainty.
Some say capitalism did it. Others blame technology, bureaucracy, or the slow leak of meaning from our institutions. But maybe it’s simpler. Maybe the dead just found it easier this way. No highs, no lows, no risk of heartbreak.
When I see them, on the tram, in the meeting, in my own reflection, I wonder if the cure is even possible. You can’t teach the dead to feel, and you can’t legislate a soul. But sometimes, in rare moments, a child’s laughter, a sunset that refuses to end, a cat curling up beside you like a small heartbeat, you sense the light again. You realize the real rebellion isn’t political or even philosophical. It’s staying alive in a world that’s made peace with being dead.