Our kind … So ill-fitting. So maladjusted.
Why did we appear? What’s our use? What are we for? Attitudes like ours … The thoughts that we have …
Why do we only want to destroy, destroy? How can that be our role: to dream of destruction? To crave destruction?
Our pathologies. Our maladies. Our disturbances. Our fantasies …
We’re a type that only appears at the end, as a sign of the end. Of the sickness of the end.
Our kind … our type … Harbingers. Preparers.
This excess energy … This extra darkness … this force of negativity … but what’s it for? What are we for?
What’s wrong with a time that produces people like us?
Dreamers of disaster: why are they needed? Living death drives.
Will we find out what we’re for? Will there be a special role for us that we’ll discover at the end?
A psychological shift has occurred. There’s been a change in the spiritual climate of the world.
And philosophy’s only made it worse. Philosophy’s only given us a vocabulary.
Yet what we express isn’t philosophy. We express it through philosophy, it’s true, but it’s not philosophy. We’re using philosophy to do something else.
What for? Religious purposes? Apocalyptic purposes? To express our peculiar … personalities? Our living fever …
There’s a reason for this. There’s a reason for us.
There’s a language we can speak. That philosophy gave us. That our philosophical training gave us. Even a fluency …
There are words, phrases. Whole philosophies. That we’re ransacking. That we’re selling for parts.
We indulge it in each other. We multiply it in each other. It’s accelerated. Given wings. Made to echo.
Our living fever … Which we have in common. Which we share.
What were we brought to Newcastle to do? What would Cicero have us do?
Work in Progress 