Do you think you’re good at romance, philosopher? At making a woman feel special?
The philosopher does romance.
Fuck knows why I’m so intrigued by you. Fuck knows why I’m so interested.
You’re just an occasion to make me speak. You’re just what lets me speak into the void.
I can just say anything to you. I can just say these things. No one’s stopping me. And I don’t even know what I’m saying.
The world is gone – who wrote that? The world is gone. And we’re gone, philosopher. We’re G-O-N-E. We’ve fallen out of the world. The world doesn’t want us.
This doesn’t matter to you. It isn’t important. This is incidental stuff. Chat. Romance doesn’t matter to you. I don’t matter.
This is just time out. Time away from the Work, right? From the magnum opus. From what you were put on earth to do.
What, be a crap philosopher?
You don’t think you’re crap. You don’t believe that. Or you believe that if you work hard enough you won’t be crap forever.
Don’t you ever enough? Don’t you have enough of being you? Of being anything? Don’t you ever have enough?
It’s all worn out. it’s wearing out. no one believes in it. You don’t, and I don’t, and no one –
Who am I, anyway? Just some jumped up organisational manager …
I’ve done nothing with my life. I’m doing nothing with my life, and I’m not even depressed. I’m not even miserable – not really. I’m not going to change. Nothing’s going to happen to my life as a result of this. It’s all going to be the same It’s all going to be the usual thing.
And I want to laugh at it, philosopher. I’m laughing at it. But I’m not laughing – I’m not actually laughing.
It’s all show business. It’s all lies. We’re fed these lines. We’re supposed to say all – these – things. And I don’t want to say them, but I’m going to say them. And maybe … maybe no one wants to say them, but they’re going to say them.
We’re organising it all. We’re managing it.
We’re running the show. We’re writing the script. We’re managing it all. Behind the scenes, making sure it all goes smoothly, or whatever. We’re doing the programming. And I want to break out of the programming.
We’ve set the parameters for future humanity, or whatever. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. So controlled.
I want a holiday from being me. From being an organisational manager, anyway. An organisational manager wife, to organisational manager Alan.
Who the fuck am I supposed to be? I’m going to be an organisational manager forever. What’s my role? What am I supposed to be? Who am I, philosopher? Am I anything at all?
We’re just going to blow away. The wind at the coast is just going to blow us away. I don’t know how I am anymore. I don’t know what anything’s about anymore.
I don’t know how to live. I’m puzzled by it. I’m confounded by it. I don’t know how to organise my feelings. Or manage them. Very clever.
This … mood. This atmosphere, that hangs over everything. That’s just everywhere. That’s thick. That’s heavy. That you’re probably made of, philosopher.
What’s wrong with you? What’s wrong wth me, now? What’s wrong with everything?
Work in Progress 