There was once a baby.
As a baby, thoughts, images, ideas flashed across his mind. This brain, a vaporous, intemparate place, was uncontrollable.
And then, he grew. The mind, once vapor, accumulated as drops. Drops of water on the stone that was the culture. Drip, drip, drip.
Do this, don\'t do that. It\'s wrong to run around naked.
Think this, think that. Sharing is good, keeping is bad. But always, always assume that everyone believes the opposite, and act accordingly.
Believe this, believe that. Jesus died for your sins. You\'re sinful. Even when you\'ve done nothing, sin inherant lies in your heart. In the Bible is perfection, but do not read the parts that contradict the American lifestyle. Give to the poor? The meek inherit?
And the boy grew. Grew into a young man, idealism, regimented, remained. Passionate flashes of that which he was recur, but are beaten down. Rebellion is wrong, unless you do it in Tommy Boy, A&F, or Gap clothes. The boy, though resistance remained in some degree, had coalesced into ice. Ice in a pre-set form, never varying. Those pieces of ice not in the correct form break. Broken ice is to go to therapy, and find the correct form. If the form is never correct, the ice is lumped into a slush pile with like broken pieces, and locked away.
And still the boy grew. Into a fine ice scupture of a man, with a nice sculpture of a woman kneeling before, a pleasant business suit on his back, and a field of broken pieces surrounding. The resistance was now gone. Nothing but the form remained of that which he was. He was now moral, ethical, apolitical, socially and self-righteously religious, and a perfect sculpture. A still-life representation of a human being.
And the man grew, as well. Cracks formed in the ice, overtime. For no sculpture, of ice or stone, lasts. Pressure melted it, smashed it, and left it. Senility, the other sculptures screamed, and this piece, now just another broken form, was carried off.