Hope

*Why do our lives need to add up to anything? Why do we think they should? We have … expectations. Despite everything. That’s the absurdity. If we didn’t If we actually thought we were mediocre, things would be different. But we don’t. See, we think we’re more than mediocre: that’s the terrible secret. We actually think we’re capable of something. We have hope for ourselves, despite it all.

Why haven’t we learned the lesson? What’s wrong with us? Hope betrays us, right? Hope is what’s wrong with us. We need to be cured of hope. Isn’t it disgusting: hope? Because it means we’ll always disappoint ourselves. We’ll never be actually resigned to our mediocrity. To how awful we are. Which means that we never really experienced it, our mediocrity. That we don’t actually think we are mediocre.

But Cicero saw something in us.

Cicero saw what we were. And brought us here because of what we were. It was some masochistic thing. Some self-sabotaging thing. The destruction of philosophy amused her. The self-immolation of European philosophy. That’s what she wanted to bring about. For her own entertainment.