Maximum Apollo

Apollo. Behold, the god of archery, music and dance, truth and prophecy, healing and diseases, the sun and light, poetry and plague, and, as though the nametags on Olympus ran out of chests to be pinned onto, he is also the god of beauty.

In my deranged dreams I imagine him a soldier-writer; "soldier" only coming first because words take up space and any one should follow the order of readibility, the bastards. 

Perpetually fighting for honor, God, country, its women, or whatever cause you can pick up in the next block. Always a reason: there is nothing more dangerous than randomness and subjectivitism. Objectivity, however, is plagued by science so much it has become boring in the most uninteresting way (for there is, to the contrary, boredom wherein swims the potent sperm of a lion sleeping). Always a fight: for history, at the end. However, this only makes sense when one understands that history is always already complete; that is the precise reason why he fights, for a whole so predetermined so as to render himself meaning, any meaning. Brute fact does not interest him; the possibility within the poem and the word is always, always, superior to what is. "Higher than actuality," as Heidegger states, "stands possibility."

That is the only way to survive in and be worthy of combat: the possibility of either dying or winning. After all, Batman realized this 75 years later, that he is not immortal, thus rendering his mortality shooting straight to the gods': his battles have meaning only in the context of a fait accompli, if only to make the pearls around his mother's neck be in order again.

Perpetually shining so as to keep his own darkness at bay, which he understands is how darkness itself loves light. If the round-earth theory is right, then the sun takes eight uninterrupted minutes for a thing, the only thing, standing in the way of the light for 174.64 million kilometers, only to be interrupted to form the reality of a shadow. And Plato was wrong: what is real is the cave; the light only a means for the West to have "refinement" and "fact." The light in the cave, a fire, is far more potent than the ideal sun outside: at least it is human, made, sustained, comforting. For who would love a sexy genius 10,000 kilometers away?

Forever unto a plague unto himself: Apollo is the most bored creature in the pantheon of the gods. For he is multi-fold, thrust to tasks that all mean the same thing: the war of the banal versus the transcendent, the battle always unfolding in the hearts of men, which is nothing but the essence of fear itself. Not for nothing, after all, does his own name mean, simultaneously, "destroyer" and "assembler." 

Perpetually writing, for words are the only balm against the slashing scalpel of the world. But in order to stop this worlding, one has to wound himself first: to commit to letter and posterity the being of what one is, what one - dares he say it - wants. He is diseased by this desire to heal his own self-inflicted wounds. Thus are the greatest novels written, and will always be.