We’re not part of it. We don’t belong to your world. We live in isolation. We’ve opted out. We’ve gone away. We’ve sidestepped the evil.
I can’t give you reasons … justifications. I can’t explain.
What you see around you. It should be clear. What we are – or are not. What we honour.
I don’t know how many of us there are. I don’t count. I think it’s good to forget how to count, don’t you? I think it’s good to forget.
You’ll think we’ve gone mad. And perhaps we are mad. But it’s a benign madness. A calm madness. A giving madness.
Something hovers here. Something we hold between us. We don’t know what it is. We don’t know anything.
It doesn’t want to be revealed. It doesn’t want to be here. And that’s how it shows itself: by hiding. That’s how it reveals itself – by not revealing itself.
A sound. Sounds. Like the buzzing of insects. That’s what we hear. A distant rumbling. Like faraway thunder. Like some earthquake, far far away.
I don’t know what I’m talking about. I’m not a philosopher anymore, if I ever was.
I can’t stand the light. We can’t stand it. The way everything is shown, and nothing hidden. The way there are no secrets. It’s what makes us live in secret. There are things that must be hidden. Underground.
You’ve kept all these people locked up here for so long. Underground. Like some md cult.
They are free to come and go.
But they don’t go, do they? They’re like an enclosed order of nuns. Or monks.
They’re so pale. You’re pale.
If I was up there, I’d just shuffle through the world. I’m old now, don’t you see? People would think I was mad. And perhaps I am.
I think I’m broken. I think I’ve been broken. I think I’ve suffered. But I’m not mad. I have faith. But I think we don’t know what madness is. I think I’m loser to the truth. The truth of madness. A mad truth.
Perhaps we have saved ourselves. Perhaps we should try and save the world, too. The borders shouldn’t have to be maintained: that’s what I tell myself. Between … dream and reality. The idea and the real. Not that simple.
Perhaps I was selfish before, trying only to save the postgraduates. Leaving the world to burn. This time, everyone must be saved: that’s what I tell myself. The whole world. I don’t know if I believe it.
Sometimes I say to myself: The gate must be opened. There should be no distinction between what lies below and what is above. The frontiers must be abolished.
Sometimes I say: There must be a new pact with the world. A new covenant. The seasons will be inverted. It must be sunny at night and snowy in August. Great things must end and small things endure.
We will never die, just as we will never have lived. We’re not in this world. We’re not part of it. We don’t know how to be.
We don’t want the world. Not anymore. We live in isolation. We’re not people who should be alive. We’re aberrations. We’re not part of it.
Work in Progress 