I’d find it unbearable – seeing people all the time. Bumping into people. I can’t bear seeing anyone until about midday.
Always on. Always ready. Always up. Always bright. Always smiling. Always ready for encounter. For an exchange of ideas. I’d kill myself. I’d fucking kill myself.
In the morning! The morning should be sacred!
It’s like total mobilisation. Isn’t there any time for silence? For nursing hangovers. For just feeling appalled. For morning depression. For that-I-am-a-just-dug-up-corpse feeling.
Don’t you need time just to pull yourselves together? Just to be able to face the world? Look at another person in the eyes. Time to shake the dread off. To let the caffeine hit, or whatever. To just come together as a human being.
Time not to be shocked that there’s yet another morning. That there’s yet another day on earth. Another fucking day! Doesn’t that take some time to live with? So you can dial down the disgust. And the horror. Until you’re able to greet someone in the corridor.
I don’t want to greet anyone at that time in the morning. To mix with people who don’t feel the same default disgust that you do. Who don’t simply want to kill themselves. Who don’t want to hang themselves from the ceiling, right away.
God, Jesus must want you for a sunbeam.
Did anyone ever call you happy go lucky?
Should we compare depressions? How low do you go? Do you have anything other than suicidal ideation? Lucky you.
Another day that Satan has made, right?
It’s comic, really. It’s entertaining, in its own way. It’s amusing, this level of fucked-upness. You’d think it’d make us interesting.
I just feel wrong. Or the world’s wrong. Or everything’s wrong – everything. It amazes me. It constantly amazes me. Feeling this way.
What’s wrong with me? Why was I made like this? What possible use could I be?
I feel too heavy to stand. To sit up. I want to stay horizontal forever. I want to be buried. I want to be deep underground. In some coffin, preferably. The vertical world isn’t for me.
Are there other people like this? Do you feel it, too? Do you?
Who feels worse – you or me? Who feels more suicidal? Who feels like they won’t get through the day?
We’re not made for this world, are we? Everything is unbearable. Every fucking thing.
I think my mind’s crashing, like a computer crashes.
Am I a philosophical specimen? Should I bequeath my body to philosophy? For philosophical research?
You’re wondering what my husband and I have in common. Whether I tell him these things. Whether he could listen. Whether he has a philosophical ear.
We have a way of getting on. We have our routines, philosopher. It’s … companionable. I’m not always full of all this … angst.
Do I have an interesting variety of philosophical madness? Is this a philosophical flare-up? When Organisation Management goes philosophical: is it a cautionary tale?
This is the only place where you can kill yourself. By throwing yourself all the way down. You can expect a lot of bodies piling up down there.
What can philosophy do to help? Anything? Or is it just a cry for help?
It’s a way of honing the cry for help. Making it beautiful.
Is it evil – all of this? In the way it pretends to be good? Is that it?
The age of philosophy has passed. And the humanities – obviously. All we’re for … Our age has gone. All that learning. The library of Alexandria is burning again.
The abominable offspring of philosophy and Organisational Management. Some ghastly new subject area.
Fuck the machine, eh, philosopher?
Work in Progress 