Dispossession

I don’t even know what to want. Sometimes. This constant, low-level … whatever.

Anxiety.

That sounds too intense. It’s vaguer. Vaster. It’s bigger than us. And it’s indifferent to us. And we don’t matter to it. And it barely matters to us, or so it seems. Like drifting smoke. Like curling tendrils of smoke.

And it fills me with such a sense of disengagement. Like nothing matters.

Like a nihilism cloud.

Like melancholy. But it’s not my melancholy. It’s a kind of sadness in everything. A mute silence. If things could speak, that’s what they’d say. I’m melancholy: that’s what they’d say. But that’s not it, either. They’d say, there’s melancholy. Melancholy’s drifting through us like a cloud.

 

A great floating it-doesn’t-matter. That just floats around, more or less invisibly. Waiting to pass through everything and everyone. Possessing us. Or dispossessing us.

 

I’m confused, philosopher. But it’s not my confusion.

 

You lose yourself. Lose hold of yourself. Just disperse into the air. That’s what happens. Your attention just floats away. Who you are. What you care about.

That’s what it’s like being me.

 

Nothing in the head, philosopher. Nothing in the fucking head.

 

We’re falling together, philosopher. That’s something.

 

That one day passes, then another. That nothing changes. That things go on, philosopher. Indifferently to me. And to you. And to everyone. And it all just goes on. And maybe it shouldn’t. Maybe it should all stop.

 

How do we achieve the perfect dissociation? How do we find our way there? How do we leave ourselves, perfectly? Wake up from our bad dreams?

 

As though we were watching ourselves on TV from far away.