Cicero loved our disgust. The quality of it. And our self disgust.
So she did.
She loved our self-disgust. She harvested it. Lived off it, like a succubus.
She thought it could be turned in another direction. Towards something more worthwhile.
Cicero’s giving us jobs was only the condition of our coming into our idiocy. Of truly inheriting our idiocy.
We didn’t know it yet, but our jobs would hone our idiocy. Direct it.
Cicero’s giving us jobs only have free play to our impostor’s syndrome. It would be the making of us … through the unmaking of us.
Our idiocy versus the world: that wasn’t enough for Cicero. But versus ourselves. Turned upon ourselves …
We were idiots who didn’t want to be idiots. Self-aware idiots who wanted done with self-awareness.
Idiocy by itself was nothing. But self-consciousness about our idiocy …
Work in Progress 