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NB: This is the third in a four part series, "A Philosophy Carol." You can find the first two here and here, and the last here.
How did you even get back to sleep?
It is, after all, a little creepy to be visited by two supernatural beings in one night. You really need to stop eating that food before bed. Indigestion and hallucinations are apparently a thing.
But finally you're asleep. You don't really dream, but this is fine. What you just experienced was stranger than a dream anyway. Unfortunately this doesn't last long.
It's music that wakes you up this time. An entire section of violins seems to be playing at your bedside. This elegant beginning is joined with a harpsichord, an electric guitar, and then remixed into some sick, sick beats. You groan at first, but you soon start bobbing your head to the music. It's the best part of every type of music that ever existed, thrown into one perfect, perfect symphony. Tentatively, you open your eyes.
You thought it couldn't get weirder, but it does. You see a row of violinists and the harpsichordist to the left of your bed. You see a DJ to your right. In front of your bed is a guitarist, and there is an entire choir behind the guitarist. What makes this wild, though, is that every performer is the same person.
You don't understand how you know this, but you do. It's probably helpful that they all look alike. A very tall, jovial-looking man with close-cropped hair, mahogany skin, and a twinkle in his brown eyes. Depending on what instrument he is playing, he is dressed differently. Sometimes he's wearing a tuxedo, sometimes a velvet suit, sometimes a robe.
The music hits its crescendo, with the choir finishing on a high note, the violins' bows ceasing decisively, and the guitarist finishing up by performing a show stopping split. You stare, because what else can you do?
"I know you're gonna give me a standing ovation," the guitarist chides, hands on his hips in an expectant manner. The other musicians and choir echo his movement, all giving you a very judgmental look. You are embarrassed, so you get out of bed and clap slowly, but only because you were just woken up by...this.
The extra musicians and singers vanish, as does the guitarist's guitar, and he approaches you in his velvet suit, a disarming grin on his face. He holds his hand out in a welcoming gesture and you take it, receiving the heartiest handshake of your life. You can't help but half-smile in a sleepy way. This guy knows how to charm.
"I am the Ghost of Philosophy Present," he announces in a proud, booming, yet sonorous voice. You stare at him wordlessly, blinking several times.
"The Ghost of Philosophy Present…?" he says again, more tentatively, tilting his head and giving you another accusatory look. He clears his throat.
"Oh. Yeah. You. OK. Let's go, then," you mumble sheepishly. The Spirit takes you by the crook of your arm and ushers you to your living room, which is oddly converted into a formidable library, loaded with books of all ages and sizes. You are excited for a moment, and idly wonder if you get to keep all of these and if you can sell the ones you don't want on eBay.
The Spirit pulls out a small remote from his pocket and a door opens in one of the shelves. He gestures and you head down a set of stairs where you are met with...a small, seminar-style classroom, a nerdishly-dressed man with a graying beard standing before a table of no more than ten students. You did just wake up, after all.
"But why should we care?" asks one of the students, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. Beside him, a young woman has her phone under the table and is not-so-surreptitiously scrolling through something. The professor smiles as though he's heard this question every day of his entire life.
"Because it's everything at stake. It's your life. It's the lives of your friends. Philosophy is more than just the life of the mind. Is the unexamined life worth living, after all?" It's amazing how calm he is in the face of his clearly inattentive students. One seems to hang on every word, but the others are doodling, staring at their devices, staring into space, or staring out the window. The Spirit beside you shrugs, and you end up in a very, very cold place.
It's a warehouse. Cavernous and full of shelves and shelves of items. Everything in the world might sit on these shelves--well, at least one or two of everything.
The group of people there are huddled together, bundled in their own coats and hugging themselves. One of them keeps an eye on the rows and rows of shelves, wandering around the group as she scopes out the rest of the echoing warehouse. Another woman quietly begins to speak, drawing closer to the others in the dimly lit room.
"We need to start this union. It's wrong the way they treat us, the way he gets all the money and we are doing all the work. What are we even doing here? I had to leave my kids on Christmas because some idiot needed a cheapass, fake Stanley cup. What are we doing here?" the woman repeats, her voice still lowered even with its passionate intonation.
"But what if we get fired?" a young, bespectacled man asks nervously. "I can't pay for tech school if I lose this job. That will be it. And anyway, it's not like we're prisoners in China..."
"But we are prisoners!" chimes in an older woman, her short, cutely-styled hair graying. "Think about it. We spend every free minute here. He doesn't give us bonuses or time to ourselves. We're just drones working here. Are we even human?" A sharp metal clank causes the small group to jump as a whole.
"So what do you think, Rand?" asks a man in a rather expensive suit. He stands in front of the brightness emanating from the many-paneled windows of what can only be a grand skyscraper.
"I think that's a great idea, Mr. Randy," replies another besuited man, taking notes with a fountain pen on some obscenely expensive paper.
"And you, Rand?" the first man addresses a third, who sits back in his swivel chair, looking thoughtful. He gazes lovingly at the only decoration on any of the walls. A middle aged woman with short, black hair, in black and white. She appears very serious, almost stern. There is nothing motherly about her, and yet this man looks up to her visage as though she had given him life.
"Go for it. It's not like our audience or constituents care. I mean, we own this whole city, if you think about it. And why shouldn't we? Our company is bigger than most countries. We get their entire GDPs in profit every quarter. Why shouldn't we?" The other two men smile and nod at his words.
"We'll pull that lever, then." The note-taking man inclines his head, dotting the last "i" with the fountain pen. The two other men regard the portrait on the wall as though looking for approval from a mother.
"I just feel...I don't know what I feel. I just wonder if I can do this anymore." A student-aged young person with a shock of blue hair clutches a tissue from the box proffered. Across from the student, a woman not much older sits, her feet crossed at the ankles.
"Have you thought about what you'd say to another person with the same struggles? Wouldn't you be kind to them? Wouldn't you want them to feel better?" The blue-haired person nods, sniffling. The student takes another tissue from the box, looking out the window behind the therapist and onto a very green quad.
The Spirit ushers you around. It's very seamless, but you get the impression that this is how this Spirit works. You see protests, places of worship, yoga workshops, public libraries, and family dinner tables. You see the disenchanted faces of prisoners, the hopeful, upturned faces of children, and the wizened visages of the elderly. For a moment you wonder if you should be crying or if this is some kind of hyper-emotional, sentimental thing.
You return to the library and the Spirit gives you a pat on the back in the way a bro might pat another bro--far too hard, almost knocking you off your feet. His warm smile fades a little as he beckons you close. Still reeling from the back clap, you creep forward.
"You have seen how it works," he confides, drawing you nearer to him with his large hand on your shoulder. You're still not completely sure what you have seen. "But here's the thing. It's not all copacetic." From behind him emerge two small, frail, and trembling children, eyes wide with some inner terror. They wear the closest thing you have ever seen to rags: stained t-shirts and too-big jeans, ripped in unappealing and not-fashionable patterns. They sport ancient sneakers, the tired leather parting at the seams. Both children watch you wordlessly.
"Who are they?" you demand, affronted at seeing this show of poverty before you. You are angry and you're not quite sure why.
"Meet my children, Ignorance and Complacency," the Spirit replies, his expression solemn. "They have not always been in such a sad state. Their poverty waxes and wanes depending on the spirit of the time. But now they are as poor as they come. And they are your children too."
"Mine?!" You draw back, aghast at the idea. Maybe you have children of your own. Maybe you're thinking of having children some time in the future. Maybe you just don't like children. Whatever reason, you turn your head, trying not to look into the empty eyes of the hollow-cheeked kids.
"You nurture them every time you get sucked into your devices." The Spirit is suddenly at your ear, the children starting to sniffle somewhere behind him. "You nurture them every time you share that video with the conspiracy theories--you know the one. You feed them when you stop questioning why you are told to do things, when you read the news and shrug, disappointed but not surprised. They are your children, yours."
Head in your hands, you peer from between your fingers. The children are gone. The Spirit puts a hand once more on your shoulder. For the massive size of his hand, the touch is surprisingly gentle and it calms you immeasurably. You take a deep breath, straightening up and preparing yourself.
"You know what is next." You nod, taking another fortifying breath. The light in the library dims until you are left in complete blackness. The comforting weight of that hand no longer exists.
You walk forward in the darkness, your arm outstretched...
