Indulgence

This is some indulgent existence. Who has the right to live like this? We do, apparently.

We’re luxuriants. We’re self-indulgers. We’re emptying the chocolate box of life.

Surely all this is bad for us. Surely it’s ruining us in some way or another. We’re going to be punished, I know it. You don’t get a free pass for this. You can’t just live like this. You can’t just abandon everything. There are consequences, I’m sure of it.

It must be doing something to our souls. Do we have souls? You tell me, philosopher. You’re the expert.

 

How come we deserve this? Why can it be our thing? This isn’t a normal life. We shouldn’t be living like this, so carelessly. Like we don’t care about anything.

 

This deception. How come I believe I deserve this? That I should get away with it? Am I just greedy? Probably.

 

It’s not like I have an excuse. I wasn’t brought up really savagely. There was no major trauma in my life. I wasn’t, like, abused or anything.

 

What sort of person am I? The sort of person who doesn’t care what sort of person I am – that’s clear. Who doesn’t have a conscience. No, who doesn’t act on her conscience.

 

I’m not even mean. I’m not even calculating. I just helped yourself to this. I wanted an affair, and I got to have an affair and that was it. Simple. No qualms. No inner objections. No wrackings of conscience. No anxiety. No: who am I if I do this? No: what kind of person does these things? No: who am I becoming?

 

I must be … two dimensional or something. I must have no depth. No soul.

 

What if we actually lived together? What if we actually got married? What would we do then?

You’d have to find a lover.

And so would you.

 

This is some indulgent existence. Who has the right to live like this?

We do, apparently. We do.

Why? How come we deserve this?

Because we alone could appreciate it for what it is.

What is it, philosopher?

 

We are pleasing ourselves, aren’t we? I’m pleasing you, aren’t I? I'm pleasing me at least.

 

Love … makes you feel exalted, doesn’t it? It makes you high. It makes you feel like some secret aristocrat. If only the world felt what we felt: that’s what you think.  It makes you smug.

 

All the world loves lovers. And lovers are always in love with themselves. With their love. With their being in love. It’s a recipe for smugness.

 

Do you think we look like we’re in love? Do we charm people? Do we lovebirds remind them of the possibility of romance?

It’s like we’re elevated above everything. Like this is the most important thing in the world. Do you feel it, too? Are we in love, in love, in love?

 

There’s an absolute divide between us, and them. Because we’re in love. We’re, like, a loving elite. Who feel their love more intensely than anyone else. Who live more intensely.

 

We’re despisers. We despise all those who live lower than our love.

I think I despise us.

 

Us against the world. The world against us. That's how it is. 

 

Lovers staring at each other. Pleased with themselves. With their love. Pleased with themselves in love.

 

I want to thank nature personally. Thanks, nature. Thanks hormones. Thanks, desire. Thanks, lust.

 

We’re exalted. We’ve exalted ourselves. Lifted ourselves out of the common run.

 

Even I think I look pretty good. I’m peaking, right? This is as good as it’s going to get. It’s all decline from here. God!

And what then, will you just stick with your husband forever?

Maybe I’ll have to.

 

I’m at my peak and believe I deserve something.

Because of your beauty.

Sure, because of my supposed beauty.

 

You’re getting hotter. You’re peaking. This might be the height of your beauty.

And why do you deserve my so-called beauty, philosopher? Why do you get to have it? You tell me …

Because I appreciate it. Because I’m a connoisseur.

The connoisseur of me. I like that idea.

 

God, it’s all very animal, isn’t it? It’s all very … primitive.

 

You’re insatiable. You want too much.

You made me insatiable. You’re the cause.

 

This is like a holiday romance. It’s like we’re on holiday, and it won’t last once the spell is broken. Once we have to go back to reality.

 

This is our sentimental education. Do you realise that?

What are we supposed to be learning? What’s the curriculum?

 

Maybe there’s no such thing as Love capital L. All of this is a way to cover up the void. The void of our lives. The void of everything.