The vast sky. They haven’t fucked up the sky, have they?
They’re trying to.
I think I’ve got some kind of brain damage. From … thinking too hard. From being exposed to philosophy.
Is philosophy actually good for the brain? I’m not sure it is.
Is there such a thing as a philosophy dementia? How can you tell philosophy apart from brain fog?
I don’t have any answers anymore. I liked having answers.
It’s like we’re going farther and farther … out. Like we’ve gone more and more extreme. Are we ever going to live normal lives again? Are we ever going to come back to ordinary life?
What have you done to me, philosopher? I’m not good for anything anymore. Certainly not a normal relationship.
And I don’t know what my relationship to you is supposed to be. Are we having an affair? I suppose we are. But it doesn’t feel like a love affair. What is it, then?
It feels like we’ve been stranded. Marooned. Somewhere far out, into the ocean. Somewhere far from anywhere.
You’ll get no sense out of me. I don’t know what you call it, this feeling.
Idiocy.
Is that the name for it? Not very flattering. Have you turned me into an idiot? But I suppose a philosophical idiot is far more advanced than a regular idiot.
We’ve gone a long way … out. We’ve travelled very far in one particular direction. And now we’re thoroughly lost. Well, I suppose you’re not entirely lost, are you philosopher? I suppose you know your way around, in lostness.
We’ve left the world behind, haven’t we? The human world. The old world. Where are we supposed to be now?
Is this where you spend all of your time? No wonder you look so vague. No wonder you seem so out of it. When I ask you what you’re thinking, you always say: nothing. And I believe you now. Because if this is what’s in your head, it really is nothing.
Don’t you think you can go too far out – that you can lose yourself in this … void – whatever it is? There should be warnings. There should be explanatory plaques. Alerts on your phone. Like speed limits. There should be limits to what you should be able to think.
Is that mist? Is it a frozen fog? God, when’s summer going to come? When are the long days going to return? The days are so short, philosophy. It’s three o’clock, and getting dark. So tiresome.
Philosophy just about flying kites in the Nothing, isn’t it? It’s of no use to anyone. But even uselessness has some kind of use, I suppose.
I feel like I’ve already died. Is that common, in philosophy? Is that what usually happens?
I feel like I’m on some kind of spacewalk. I feel like I’m lying in the snow, dying of hypothermia. But it’s a sweet death. It’s a gentle death.
I’m closing my eyes, and death is sweet, sweet. And I want it to come. I want its sweet oblivion. It’s not natural to think like this, is it? It’s not right.
Is this where philosophy takes you? Is this where you end up? And where have we ended up?
Why should we want to die? Why should anyone want to die? And what is a subject area that just makes you want to die?
Philosophical … dissociation. Philosophical … blankness. Am I going to remember any of this. It’s like being in a dream.
This isn’t my real life. I know it isn’t. I don’t say these things. I don’t speak like this. I’m not so pretentious, for one thing. I’m … just … a … regular … person. That’s what I tell myself. Isn’t that true, philosopher?
It’s like I’m dreaming these things. I’m dreaming as I speak. Or I’ve been hypnotised, or something. I’m in a trance. And I’m saying all these things. And what am I saying?
It’s like someone’s cast a spell over me. I’ve been enchanted. And you, too, philosopher. Or maybe you’re the enchanter.
There’s no more world. We’ve run out of world. Whoever’s in charge of this isn’t even bothering to fill out the background. We’re nowhere, aren’t we? But nowhere become somewhere. Nothing become something. The non world become … what? Another world?
We’re speaking into the light, that’s all. Our breath’s steaming. It’s still winter in the afterlife, or wherever we are.
I think we’re supposed to talk. I think something wants us to say things. Profound things, maybe. No – unprofound things. Ordinary things.
Just … talking like we talk, when we’re together. We’re supposed to say stuff. Your turn, philosopher – you say things. What are you going to say? How are you going to fill the void? Only I think it’s about the void filling us. I think it’s about speaking this, speaking from this, or whatever.
We have to stop lying, philosopher.
What are we lying about?
After all these words, what? After everything we’ve said – or I’ve said – what then? Is saying things enough? Aren’t we supposed to do stuff? What are we saying, anyway?
Are we so tired of being alive, philosophy? Too tired to be bothered to be alive?
Work in Progress 