We saw through it all – the ordinary world, Cicero knew that. We weren’t just good little nihilists. We didn’t live in their world, the good little nihilists.
This was an island in a great chaotic sea, that’s all: that’s what we knew. This island Earth. This island world. And beyond, the great Futility. The night. Which laughs at what we do. Laughs because it doesn’t laugh. Mocks us because it doesn’t mock us. Roars in its silence …
We saw through the world, Cicero knew that. Meetings. Offices. The usual politenesses. Our smiles were always the smiles of the outside. Our laughter came from all the way from the Outside. And when we drank, it was only to regain our relation to the Outside. Only to channel the forces of the Outside. It was put them to work – to the opposite of work.
That was our anarchy. The anarchy in all things, which was our anarchy, too. Which was the anarchy in our hearts. Releasing us from Pomposity. From High Seriousness. From all the usual alibis and excuses.
We’d died to the world, the false world. We’d seen through the fakery. We lived outside this world, within it. We lived in the larger world – the larger non-world. We lived in recurrence. In the indeterminable. In the beginningless and endless.
Work in Progress 