Ghosts

How long ago did we die, philosopher? When did we die? When the world end?

What happened to the world? What happened to us?

How is it that we think we’re alive? Why do we believe we’re alive? We’re ghosts, right? We’ve disappeared – we’ve already disappeared.

Who are we, even to ourselves? Who are we supposed to be for ourselves? Are we supposed to believe in ourselves like people used to believe in God?

What’s the equivalent of an atheist, but with regard to oneself? Because  I don’t believe in myself, philosopher.

We were woken from our graves. Set to wander. Like it was Judgment Day. But it isn’t Judgment Day, is it?

We’re not real. We’re barely real.

What are we supposed to be? Who are we supposed to be? I don’t know. I don’t know anything. I don’t know the first thing. Or the second thing. Or the third thing. I don’t know anything.

Is there life after death, philosopher? Is there just death after death, philosopher. Do we have to keep on dying and dying and dying?

It’s like we’re dying. What are we dying of? We’re dying of death. Very, very slow death. We’ve always been dying, and we call it living.

Was that clever, philosopher? Was that a clever thing to say? Am I impressing you, philosopher? With my … angst? Is it common or garden angst? Is it special angst? Does it set me apart, my angst? Do I have a surprising philosophical talent for angst?