It’s just like … detachment I’m infinitely detached. That’s my problem. I’m not attached to anything. Not even Organisational Management. I don’t even believe in O.M. And if I don’t believe in O.M, what then?
Like I’m dreaming. Like I’m meditating on something. No: like, I’m being meditated. Or dreamed.
Do you ever feel unreal? I feel unreal, all the time. That’s my secret. I feel unreal and I feel dead.
I’m not … part of this. My husband knows it. Everyone knows it. They sense it about me. I’m not real enough. I don’t believe in myself enough. Or I don’t believe in myself as this.
I can’t pay their games. Or my game. Or any game.
Am I less real than everyone else, or more real, philosopher?
People think I’m weird. I think, anyway. Alan’s a-bit-weird wife. Alan’s growing-weirder wife.
People don’t get me. They don’t understand me. That’s okay, because I don’t get them. I don’t get anyone.
I don’t feel superior to them. I’m just … something else, right?
I’m like a ghost who’s left her body. I don’t want to inhabit my body I don’t want to go back in. I’m outside, and happy outside.
A ghost of O.M., philosopher. A ghost of the machine, who isn’t a machine.
In another world, who would I have been? In a more meaningful world. In a world that made more sense?
Alan asks me where I am, when I’m right there. And I ask myself the same question.
It’s like I’m too vague. I’m not even tuned in, really. I don’t come into focus. Not even for myself. Except when I talk sometimes. Like now. But I never really talk like this.
But it’s not I want to say so much as … giving in. Giving myself up to … this speaking, this talking … As if it came before me. As if it had nothing to do with me. As if just passed through me.
I don’t know what I’m saying. I don’t know what I mean. I’m not saying what I mean. But what’s better than saying what I mean.
Work in Progress 