I’ve got afternoon amnesia, philosopher, Priya says. I’ve got a bad case of afternoon oblivion. Is it possible just to forget … everything? Except you, maybe. I haven’t forgotten you.
The world’s so still, isn’t it? Priya says. Nothing’s moving. The clouds aren’t moving. Just unbroken white. Just pallid daylight without depth. Where nothing’s revealed. Where everything is as it’s always been. Where banality’s banality and nothing else.
Your flat’s adrift in the sky, philosopher, Priya says. Like in Wizard of Oz. We’re just floating through the sky. There’s nothing but whiteness … There aren’t even any birds. Where have the birds gone? Where has everything gone? Where have we gone?
I want to shout something, just to show that I can, Priya says. Just to be able to do it. Just to be able to do anything. I don’t want to just give everything up. I don’t want to surrender. I don’t want to yield to this …I want to shout, philosopher. I want to be heard.
Who by? I ask. I hear you.
Not by you, Priya says. But by … God. I’m tired of being lost. I want to be found. I want God to hear me. I want to see God looking down at me through the skylight. God’s great eye. Wouldn’t that be something?
Work in Progress 