God, could you be anymore intense? Always trying to batter yourself against the sky, or whatever.
You mistakenly think there’s grandeur in suicidalism.
All philosophy is life denying. Discuss.
I think I’m constitutively bored. Transcendentally bored. I’m waiting for the universe to amuse me. Amuse me, universe …
I’m not totally intense like you. I’m not life or death to be or not to be every minute of the fucking day. I don’t like live each minute wondering whether or not to kill myself.
I just want something bearable to do. Something not unbearable. That doesn’t make me immediately want to kill myself. I don’t actually want to hurl myself out of a window. Quite unlike you guys, with your death wishes. It’s only intensified your death-desires. Only made them more intense.
The prose of the world. Does it disappoint you, philosopher? That’s where I live – in the prose of the world. In the ordinary and the everyday.
You’re like some arthouse film protagonist, wandering around and having a crisis. A crisis about everything and everything and the world. Looking moodily into the distance.
But you can’t let yourself do that, either – because you’re British. The world just won’t let you be all arthouse, will it? Must be a terrible disappointment. To be continually brought down to earth.
You’d like to be all existential. All French.
Because you have a more advanced soul than anyone else. Because you’re deeper. More profound. Because you feel things more profoundly. Is that it?
You’re not bothered by all the trivial things. You soul soars higher – is that it? You’re altogether better. You’re plain superior to the rest of us.
Anyway, the irony is that I might be the Serious one, capital S. That I have all the Serious thoughts. Because I actually read French. And speak German. And have actually been to those places.
Work in Progress 