What is this mood, anyway? What do you call it?
I’d call it … ennui. Except it’s a happy ennui. A state of vagueness, like a state of grace. Where you accept the indetermination of everything.
This is what I’m like when I’m drunk. Wistful … do you like me wistful? Am I good company, wistful?
This … high class ennui. This happy ennui. This disengagement. Like we’re drifting out of focus.
You have to be calmer at the coast. You can’t be all manic. It’s a different kind of place. You have to attune yourself. No: you have to let yourself be attuned. You have to let the coast show itself through your moods. Which are really its moods.
I don’t think there is a coast. At least, I can’t see it. All I can see is fog. Where’s, like the sea?
It’s out there somewhere. I can hear it. The waves, crashing.
Where’s the sand? Where’s anything? This is actually the void, isn’t it?
There isn’t actually a coast: that’s the secret of the coast, isn’t it?
A … fuzziness. A blurry halo around all things. Where nothing’s quite in focus. Where things just fade off …
Something’s happening. It’s happening. Our it. But it’s as if it never actually happens. That nothing actually begins.
A cul-de-sac. A byway. A detour. That’s all this is. A little wander off the path of our lives. That we probably won’t even remember in twenty years’ time.
You want it to add up to something. To be something. When it’s just … what it is. Or isn’t.
When this ends, will we ever see each other again? Will it matter that whether we see each other again?
It all feels so unreal. So … disembodied. Like nothing could ever be decided here. Nothing resolved. It’s just … suspension. It’s not part of the world.
Is this what it’s like to be a philosopher? Never involved. Never real. Never physical.
You philosophers of the void. You practitioners of the void. You void-people. Hollowing out everything …
There’s nothing real about us. We’re not real. We’re ghosts. Copies without originals. Everything we say is, like, in quotes.
Everything’s, like, dragging behind itself. And the sound is different. It’s muffled. Echoey.
Aural déjà vu: is that a thing? Like you’ve heard it all before, somewhere else. Like everything you hear, you’re just hearing again …
That’s our it: a hovering, a suspension. That doesn’t even begin. That we’re always standing beside …
I want to descend. Let’s go out. Let’s walk the streets. Let’s go to the beach. I don’t care who sees us. I don’t care anymore. About anything.
If this were a film, it’d be a mood piece, really low on plot.
Work in Progress 