The Madness of Crowds

The Madness of Crowds

Odi profanum vulgus et arceo.
I hate the vulgar crowd and keep them away from me. — Horace, Odes 3.1.1

I used to think that line was pride. Some ancient poet sneering at the common man.
Now I understand it was exhaustion.

Horace was not scorning humanity. He was shielding what little of it he had left.
He knew what the mob does to anyone foolish enough to speak plainly.

The crowd loves you until it does not.
They call you wise until you disagree.
Then they come for you.

I see it now in everything. The crowd just moved online, but the appetite stayed the same.
The Romans had their amphitheaters. We have feeds.
The mob has a thousand faces, and every one of them is hungry.

We call it engagement.
We call it public opinion.
But it is worship followed by crucifixion, and it repeats daily.

Every celebrity, every influencer, every politician is a gladiator now, thrown into the arena to bleed for attention.
They smile for the cameras, virtue-signal for the mob, chant whatever slogan keeps the knives down for one more night.
But the crowd never stays pleased.
The next outrage is already loading.

I used to laugh at how shallow it all looked.
Then I realized how deep it runs.
Even the quiet ones, people like me, start to crave the same attention in smaller ways.
A post. A comment. A validation.
You think you are above it, but you are still in the stands, cheering, judging, devouring.

It gets into your bloodstream.

And the politicians are the worst of all.
They have learned to treat the mob’s emotion as law.
They do not lead anymore. They follow the noise.
Every decision is tested by applause, not truth.
Every word crafted to offend no one and mean nothing.

It is safer to pander than to stand.
Safer to feed the crowd’s illusions than confront them.
But safety is the first thing you lose once you start performing.

Horace was right: the crowd is vulgar. Not because it is poor or common, but because it refuses to think.
It moves like weather.
It praises and destroys by instinct.
It cannot love, only consume.

I see it every time someone is crowned a saint one week and a heretic the next.
Every time a scandal erupts over words that meant nothing, said by people who meant nothing, amplified by millions of people who do not even believe what they say.

And through it all, I can feel the same old fear,
that if I speak plainly, if I tell the truth that is not fashionable,
the crowd will turn.

So I keep my distance now.
Not out of arrogance.
Out of self-preservation.

Because proximity to madness makes you mad.
Because the mob that cheers you today will burn you tomorrow and call it justice.

I still post, sometimes.
I still speak.
But I no longer expect understanding.
I no longer mistake popularity for proof.

Horace built a wall around his peace.
He wrote his poems far from the noise, and he stayed sane.
That was his rebellion, choosing solitude over spectacle.

Maybe that is the only rebellion left.
To be quiet in a world that worships noise.
To think in a world that punishes thought.
To stop performing.

Because the mob will always be there, chanting for blood in whatever language the age prefers.
But a man who keeps his soul is no one’s entertainment.

The crowd that cheers you today will call for your head tomorrow.
The wise man nods, closes the gate, and lets them howl outside.