It

What is it anyway? We always talk of it. Our being together. Our lust. Our ‘love affair’ in inverted commas. It. Like it had a life of its own.

Sure. It’s at work. It’s working through us. It’s doing things to us – with us. It’ll get tired of us at some point.

What’ll get tired?

It – just it. Our romance …

And then what’ll happen? Will it just disperse into the afternoon and disappear? God … And we’ll be none the wiser. And this whole affair will be like something we just dreamt up … The enchantment will lift. The spell will be uncast, or whatever. And we’ll wake up wondering what happened … Like Bottom’s dream, or whatever …

 

Are we getting tired of each other? Are we wearing it out, whatever it is. This thing. This it. That’s taking over our lives. Well, my life, anyway.

 

It conjured us up. We’re the poles of a relation called ‘it’. That’s just playing out through us. By means of us. Using us for its own ends.

Nature, you mean. Reproduction, you mean.

Don’t get all evolutionary biologist about it. It’s, like, more alive than us, greater than us, wider than us. Closer to the sky. Closer to the state of things. Closer to what’s real.

 

It’s happening. Through us. Despite us, even. Despite what we say or think we want … 

Nature, you mean.

Sure, but all of nature, like Spinoza said. All of the world. Which means God, too …

 

It’s happening. Through us.

Nature, you mean.

Yeah – nature. The mechanical world. The universe of fucking death. Which I’m part of, and you’re part of .. The same old mechanism, perpetuating itself.