Author: Lars Iyer

Destitute times, right? The world’s night, right? But what does this destitution let us see? Everything’s become dark. There’s no more meaning. Nothing … intelligible. I don’t know what role we’re supposed to play.

New day fucking rising, right? A new day? It’s the old day. It’s the same old day. There’s nothing new under the sun. And it’s the same old fucking sun, too. The same old fireball.

 

Today’s a new day. Time’s still going forward. There’s always more time. And don’t you want to scream: Too much time! Don’t you want to shout: No more! No more!

Disgust with time. The obscenity of time. The too-much of time. Why should there by more days? Why does everything have to begin again?

The effrontery of time. The insult of time. Mocking us! Laughing at us!

Disgust at the morning. Appalled by the morning. That there should be another morning. That one day should succeed another. That another day should come. And that another will come tomorrow.

No! We refuse tomorrow! We don’t want tomorrow. Today is enough. Yesterday was enough. What we did to ourselves yesterday. How we ruined ourselves yesterday. And now we have to begin all over again!

 

I’m tired of living like this. No: I’m tired of living. I’ve had enough of living. I’ve lived too fucking long. It’s been too fucking much.

I don’t want it to be like this. I don’t want to be like this. I don’t want to be.

 

Damn everything in this entire universe. Damn you and damn me. Damn the sky. Damn the night. Damn every-fucking-thing.

Lobotomy – it’s the only answer. How do we apply to get a lobotomy? I don’t actually want my brain. What’s my brain ever done for me except get me into fucking trouble?

 

How are your, like, suicidal impulses?

The same.

Your suicidal ideation?

Is there any other kind?

These why questions. That just open everything up. These whys that are like the whys of the universe. That are like the universe itself asking why. Where the universe – everything – asks why it is, why it was, why it will be.

 

Why: that’s the universe’s why. We’re asking the universe’s why. We’re asking in place of the universe. We’re asking for everything that exists. On their behalf. We’re questioning the outrage of existence. The horror of having to exist.

Maybe things like existing. Look at those gulls. They’re happy, right?

They’re just wheeling. Just going round and round. They’re mechanisms. They’re machines. They’re just nature’s dumb circling.

It always amazes me how we’re not injured. Or dead. How something hasn’t happened to us. Some accident. That we’re not missing several limbs. That we’re not brain-damaged. That we don’t have terminal cancer.

Maybe we have.

We’re so, like, vulnerable, right? We’re so easily damaged. Easily destroyed. Anything could happen to us, and yet it doesn’t really. I mean, how come we haven’t been murdered? How come we don’t have maniac stalkers? Why isn’t there some serial killer pursuing us?

Maybe there is.

And the Earth’s vulnerable, too. Just rolling through space. Turning on its axis. Why hasn’t some massive meteor rushing in to strike it? Why has it survived for so long? Why does it still have an atmosphere? Why hasn’t it just blown away into space?

 

Why didn’t we die long, long ago? Of some childhood cancer?

I think we did. I’ve such a sense of having died. Such a sense of never actually having lived. For not a moment. Never having been born. Never actually begun … I think I died long ago. I think I’m a ghost.

There’s a darkness in the sun. There’s a black sun within the sun. That’s burning. There’s a sun devouring the sun. There’s a cancer of the sun, devouring the sun.

What’s wrong with us? How did self-loathing become a form of enjoyment? Like scorpions stinging themselves.

Nothing hates itself like a human being. We’re the uniquely fucked up species, right?

That’s what comes of having a big brain. Used for torturing itself. And why shouldn’t it? We’re so profoundly fucked up. So fucking deeply. And the smarter you are, the more fucked up you are.

Why can’t we just die? Why isn’t it just time to die? Why can’t the end just come? Why can’t it be here? I don’t want to say anything else. I don’t want to have to.

Why can’t the universe just admit that the game is up. Why can’t anyone but us see it?

Why can’t it just stop now? Isn’t this the perfect moment for it to stop? I wish I could click my fingers and destroy it all, like Thanos. What about all the poor people you’d kill.

Fuck the poor people I’d kill.

Right now. Right – now. [Clicking her fingers.] It’s not ending.

 

The enemy’s dead – don’t forget that. Already dead.

So why’s the enemy, like, attacking us from every direction?

The enemy is death – all the forces of the dead. That are alive in their death. The enemy is death come alive. All the negative forces come alive.

We can’t defeat death, can we?

We need death to finally die.

We need to finally die.

 

*One day, death will die by itself. One day, the enemy won’t be there anymore. Death will be dead again. And this world … will be liberated.

The good people will win. We’re the good people. And goodness will win. We know what that is, even if we think we don’t.

No more fear. We won’t live in fear, not anymore.

So how will we live?

In love, of course. We’ll live in love. And in faith. And in hope.

There’s only the disaster. The only thing to think about: disaster. The only thing to read about: the disaster. The only position for us: a disastrous position.

This is the age of the endless end and the endless endless end. This is the time of perpetual emergency.

 

Don’t think you can escape. The disaster actually means the impossibility of escape.

 I do not accept this world. I do not accept … all this stuff. All the shit. I do not accept these words. I do not accept this language.

So what language are you going to use?

 

 

This is not my world. I am not who I am. This is not me. These are not my words.