Mourning the death of the old world.
But we didn’t even like the old world. The old world sucked.
What will the new world be like?
Worse.
It’s growing dark. The philosophers of the end, of the very end, are starting to appear. Who are they? Where are they hiding? What do they look like? How will we tell them from the rest of the tossers?
We will know them by their deeds. Their books? Their substacks. Their podcasts. Their vlogs.
Why do we sense these things, and no one else does – not all the clever philosophers? How come it’s falling to us?
Our very mediocrity. Our very lowness. The fact that we’ve little stake in the world as it is. The fact that we half hope for apocalypse. That we want it all to end.
Perhaps we’re not to be trusted. Perhaps we’re too in love with apocalypse. Perhaps we want the end of the world. Perhaps that’s all we want – all we’ve wanted.
A new kind of thought, that’s all our own … As vast and stupid as things are vast and stupid. Pathos-driven thought. Deep moods. Which we will access through drinking.
Of course! Drinking! What else! It’s preparatory. A method of attunement. Not a method … that’s not the word. There’s a Way.
The stupid hope that a world may come in which we’d want to live. When the end of this world is the last chance we have.
The shift’s occurring. We’re supposed to go along with it all. We’re supposed to accede. We’re supposed to work on it ourselves: the production of the new reality. We’re supposed to join in, the so-called educated middle class. The indoctrinated. The deceived. The stupefied. Shoulder to the wheel, and so on. We’ve got our role to play.
Work in Progress 