What in us wants us to live? Some life-instinct. Even in our disgustingness. Even in our patheticness.
Redoubled grotesquerie: that we should continue in our grotesquerie. That we don’t immediately kill ourselves, because of our grotesquerie.
The andmoreagain of life. Of succession. There are still more moments. Still more to happen. The story isn’t over yet.
We crawl on. We stagger on. We stumble on. My God. Isn’t it over yet?
Our show. Our dance of death.
We go on. it’s prolonged. It’s continued. We continue to live on this earth. Despite everything. Despite all we know.
I question our sincerity. The way we talk. We don’t really mean it – any of this.
Feeling we should be ashamed isn’t the same as feeling ashamed – that’s the thing. Feeling that we should hate ourselves isn’t the same as actually hating ourselves.
Because if we sincerely felt these things, we’d kill ourselves at once. If we truly felt these things, we wouldn’t wait any longer.
But we don’t kill ourselves, do we? We go on, don’t we? We’re alive … we continue … Our lives go on …
Why should that be? Why don’t we correct the problem? Why don’t we do the right thing? Because we would rather this. We’d rather do the wrong thing. We’d rather be alive.
Someone put a stop to this. Someone put a stop to us.
We bore ourselves. We tire ourselves. We wear ourselves out. Can’t someone just put us to sleep, like an animal? And just dispose of our bodies discreetly …
Not only the desire not to live, but the desire never to have lived. Never to have been alive. Never to have existed.
Shame. We don’t have the resolution to kill ourselves. We don’t have the will.
The dynamics of self-hatred. The life of self-hatred. The life of the desire to die. My God, we’re making a whole lifestyle of it. Of our thrashings. Of our convulsions. Of our twistings.
Our twistings: that is our life. Our thrashing: that is our living. This is what we do.
Our sport of self-destruction. Our sport of world-disgust. Our sport of self-disgust. Our sport of self-horror. Our sport of self-strangulation. Our sport of self-torment. Our sport of self-mutilation. Our sport of auto-destruction.
Our scholarly expertise: self-ruin. Our area of specialism: self-destruction. Our area of research: self-hatred.
An auto-immune response. We’re allergic to ourselves. We’re horrified by ourselves. But we love our horror. That’s the engine that powers us.
Work in Progress 