Lies

The world’s deranged. The world’s wrong. I just feel that sometimes.

Does evil exist, philosopher? Is there really such a thing as evil? As something real. And demonic. That has plans. That wants to take over things.

 

What we’ve built here is wrong. All this. Our empire. The empire. That rules over us, too, even though we think that we’re in charge.

 

Like there’s been some hostile takeover of the world. Of living. The liveability of living. The most basic components of life. The most basic things. Eating and drinking and walking and kissing. All these things we take for granted. Our gestures. What makes us us. Have been taken from us. Stripped from us. We don’t know who we are. We’re lost, even though we don’t think we’re lost.

 

Have we used up the world? Have we used up everything?

 

They want to seize upon our potentiality. That’s the worst thing they can take. Not what we are, but what we could be, too. Anything we could be. And even the possibility to be something else, something other than we are. Any chance of escape. That’s what they’re blocking off.

 

The perfection of our confinement: that’s what it’s about.

 

A false life in a false building. In a false place. In a false universe. It’s a false made up subject. In a false marriage. This wasn’t my life after all. And what about you?

I think this world is too evil to exist. Worthy only of being destroyed.

Do you really think that?

That’s what Cicero said.

Cicero sounds like a lunatic. Why are you so impressed by her?

What about the good things? The good acts? What about the good people?

Who are they? Where are they?

What about a night like tonight?

I’m glad it happened. I’m glad it opened. I’m glad that things are still possible.

Are they?

 

It’s like there’s thick lacquer on everything. Like its all caked in darkness. Encrusted.

And nothing happens cleanly. Without … echoes. Without dub.

Everything’s clotted. And thick. And slow. Slowed down. And echoey. And nothing happens on time.

And darkness is, like, threaded through all things.

 

And every day gets a little bit heavier. And all this becomes a little more all this. 

 

It’s all rotten from the inside. Just as we’re rotted from the inside. 

 

So that the only thing that’s real is the death wish.

 

And this day will ever end. This day which is also a night. Which is the world’s night. The final night that nevertheless lasts forever.

 

Nothing will lift the curse. No one can say the magic words.

 

Despair is the longing for an end. That’s what defines it. An end to all the ending.

 

Sinking to the bottom of the pool, and not even trying to swim.

 

And who are we in this? We’re lost in all this. We have no idea who we are. Or what we want. Or what’s ours and what’s not. Or whether we’re alive or not.

 

Everything lies. Everything around us has been made to lie. We’ve become liars. And listeners to lies. And perpetuators of lies. And liars’ channels. And mediums of lies. And transmitters of lies. And passers-on of lies. And conduits of lies.

We’re liar’s liars. And we can’t pretend we don’t know we’re lying. We’re covered in fucking lies. Buried by lies. Lost in lies.

 

And we’re just more deeply and deeply defeated. And deeply and deeply destroyed. And deeply and deeply battered. Until there’s nothing left that wasn’t defeated and destroyed and battered.