If only it would end. If only it would come, the apocalypse. The endless end: that’s what we suffer. Infinite finitude.
If only it could be brought to stop. If only it didn’t go on.
Every moment only increases our madness. We’re only going to go more mad.
The farce continues. Even we – even we are allowed to go on. Which goes to show just how wrong things are.
People like us were born. People like us slopped into being. People that shouldn’t be. Awaiters of the end, that’s all. Limit-desirers.
We shouldn’t be here. Our kind.
That we’re allowed to ply our trade. That we’re allowed to pass ourselves off as philosophers …
When we most of all want the game to be up. When we want to stop pretending. To throw in the philosophical towel.
At least take us! At least destroy us. We didn’t ask to live, did we? Strike down! Zap us!
What would be apocalypse be but a relief?
We want the book closed. We want a full stop. For there to be a halt. We want to see the credits roll.
Work in Progress 