Why are we just lying here, watching the dust motes, when we should be doing things? Striding forth, or whatever. When we should be effective individuals. Busy with this and that. …
If only we had important things do to … But I suppose you do have important things to do, don’t you? This is just a pause in your Herculean labours. You’ve just laid down your tools for a bit. This is a rest-break, in the afternoon.
Taking it easy for a while. And then back to it in the evening. Is that how it is? Are you working on something particularly important at the moment? Have you come to a crucial part of your magnum opus?
Your magnum opus. Do you really believe you’re writing one? That all this is for something? That all your days are leading somewhere? Building up to something? There’s a direction in your life. I envy that.
What are you actually writing? Can I have a look? You’ve made me actually interested now.
Reading.
Oh, it’s prose poem philosophy. It’s literary philosophy. Written in a high literary style. Do you actually have a gift for writing, do you think? Are you actually good at this? Perhaps you are … I can’t tell. Anyway, you take yourself very seriously, for all you talk about the universal farce.
A literary philosophy. Must be a real audience for that … See, you know it’s pretentious, don’t you? You know it’s imitation French, or whatever.
Do you ever think you’ve got it all wrong? That you’ve backed the wrong horse in life?
How’s your magnum opus going?
How do you think it’s going?
You should write about wanting to write a magnum opus. About the impossibility of writing a magnum opus. That might be more interesting.
Write about the impossibility of the book. Write about what you can’t do. Write about how mediocre you feel. Write about how you disappoint yourself. Dear diary, I am an idiot.
Work in Progress 