/Horace; examination of psyche\ \=-=<-=->=-=<=-=-=>=-=<-=->=-=/ I read, somewhere, perhaps in a bathroom stall, a line of words and letters. "And sometimes, to combat my jealousy, sometimes, i slip into.. ..apathy. And... ..maybe.. ..isn't that worse?" A little while later, when I came back to that stall in passing, the wall was smudged some more... someone had written, in a what may perhaps of been a ghost, imaginary, nonexistent pen, something to the effect of "God yer full of shit. That ain't apathy. And... .i don't think that you are even _slightly_ apathetic." And so, perhaps it was that I was there, with Horace, and I said, or maybe it was _he_ who said it, "No one is apathetic. Or who thinks of apathy, err, no one who thinks of it, ponders it, considers it, is. Or, well... there isn't apathy. Or then again, no one _is_ apathy." And then, maybe, someone, dunno who and it doesn't matter, said, "Well, my parents are apathetic. My parents _are_ apathy." And a response may of came. "No not them, their parents." "Or _their_ parents." "Or their _parents_ parents." Horace spoke aloud then, for what may of been his first utterance of what may of been a conversation. "So we're all apathetic." and someone : "Not me. Not us." "Does it matter?" "Not really i guess." And there was a little hushed giggle, and then louder; soft, calm, amused smirks: "Well isn't that the biggest fucking display of apathy i've ever seen." "Heard, you mean." "Same thing." Another finger was pointed - "Apathy!" and another small, quiet, bout of smile. "Our parents are apathetic.." "Arguably." "True... but we already said so, didn't we?" "We?" "Dunno..." "Anyway, that fact has already been... ..not confirmed.. ..accepted? accepted." "Sure." "So then, were does apathy come from?" "Our parents." "Ancestors you mean." "Of course, ancestors." "Of course. puh. Apathy." "But we aren't apathetic." "Are we?" "Moot point." "Where it come from?" "Contentment." "Disillusion." "Hm." "Our loins." \-/-\-/ A while ago Horace was alive and well. I don't really know if he is now. I don't care, but then, or thus, I suppose that would make me normal. Nobody cares about Horace anyway. Or even, oftentimes, their respective, personal, lovehuggly Horace. Maybe he would say I was being. Apathetic. Or maybe it is me who would say so. Then again, maybe not. Maybe nobody would say anything. Maybe neither of us would care. Doesn't matter. \-/-\-/ I heard somewhere else, on some other path, on a different wall that we were entering a computer age. The path, the voice, the wall, all said together, in perfect, Perfect! unison, that this was the cumulation of man kind, of society. The cumulation of television, really. Because the television, according to the same, mock happy wall, was already the cumulation of man kind. For, according to the path (which our flock shall NOT stray from), popular "culture" is what we are, and what we need, what we yearn for. And our television is what we are, what we need, and what we yearn for. Because it's a sponge that can.... ..take a lot of saturation. Something that can sit upon our foreheads, cool us off, calm us from our haluci-frenzy when we got a fever. And something that can... ..take our load, take our supposed (never stated, never known) purpose, when it gets too heavy. In effect then, the voice explains, we, as a species, are now our greatest creation. Our grandest and most wonderful of devices. And so, we are now, reaching our apex. According to the wall, (which we dare not climb!) once we let go, we will descend. The voice wails on, louder and deader and more joyful, and more broadly welcomed and plastic-loved. Let us enter the computer age. Through all of this, Horace imagines things. And, when Horace still lives and breaths and talks, I believe him. He says, "Should this age live?" And we shake our heads, frown our lips. And as a "we", Horace imagines, we must be another wall, another voice, and another path. My horace sees conflict, walls of unknown material grinding blocks together. And the people yell, "Fuck off, fuck you, don't understand us, don't rape our stone idol, our glass goddess." Thus, ultimately, we understand that technophobes are technology's best friend. \-/-\-/ Sometimes people ask Horace why he is so optimistic. Our why he feels glory where there's pain. Where "glory" gives pain. Sometimes ask their Horace why he's such a bastard, why he acts so... ..hateful & spiteful towards them. If Horace is alive, he may answer back with: "Why are _you_ such a bastard?" Or he may not. He may be silent. He may be dead. And the asker, the thinker, will probably no longer care. Horace won't. Occasionally, I will see a bit of Horace in another person. Occasionally, Horace will see a bit of himself in another person. And occasionally, we both hope (or at least I do, I really cannot say for certain with Horace) that another person will see a bit of themselves in Horace. Summer nights are often romanticized, that is to say, youthful summer nights are romanticized, and often, if romanticized is the proper word. Perhaps the reason, or a reason, that summer nights are romanticized is that they are youthful, are nostalgic in a manner by definition. Everyone knows it, and yet there is no rush to combat this manner of thinking about summer nights. Historians and intellectuals are quick to attempt to "de-romanticize" heros, mentalities, events. But not once have I ever seen someone try to take a bite out of summer evenings. Occasionally, then, people associate these summer evenings with others. And more often, people associate these evenings with themself. Or something they've done, something they've experienced, something they want to experience; something they are or feel they are. \-/-\-/ And for the most part, they're wrong; this association is completely unwarranted, untrue. Because they aren't the evenings of youth, Horace is. Horace isn't really them; he's a communal uncommunist. And there in lies his own personal favorite paradox : his expressly individualistic personality has carbon copies in hundreds of human frameworks. We could say that this, from his favorite paradox, is proof that Horace Has An Ego. And the statement is most likely correct. Whoever would say that, though, would be doing Horace a great injustice. Or at least, the person (or the portion of the psyche, if one of Horace's soul brothers was not getting along with him) would most likely be wrong. In spirit. Because, while Horace has an ego, that isn't Horace; Horace isn't the ego. Perhaps he has an undiscovered soul sibling who Is an ego. Horace wields an ego. {pR^creed] {you mean i lack validity] {because i don't paint my] {prose?]