Work in Progress

We’re all on our own in this death world. We’re all dead in this death world. We all died, like, a thousand years ago.

 

Destruction: that’s what this world needs. Finish off the job. End this bastard timeline.

 

This zombie world. This undead world. It needs to be destroyed. Put out of its misery. So that we can be put out of our misery.

 

We’re all spiritually dead. We’ve all been spiritually murdered. Suicidally suicided. They killed us, remember. It killed us. The world murdered us in our fucking beds.

I’m tired. Like infinitely tired. I’ve run up to the limits of tiredness.

 

I want to be shocked back into living. Like, electroshocked to restart my heart.

Do you, though?

 

If I killed myself, would you feel guilty? Would you?

No.

Would you miss me?

Of course I’d miss you.

They want us dead, so we need to live. We need to live in defiance of them.

No, we need to die more deeply. We die the deepest possible death. A death they can’t reach. Can’t defile. A death that would be our own fucking thing …

But we’d be dead, right?

 

I’d like to be unreachable in death. Totally fucking undisturbable.

But you wouldn’t be, would you? There’d always be some cunt interpretating your suicide.

 

I’d like to die a contagious death. I’d like everyone to start everyone topping themselves. In a chain reaction.

Philosophy basically leaves you with no friends.

Sure, mad philosophy.

But it gets you new ones.

Sure, mad philosophical friends. Who make things worse.

Death is, like, falling through me. I’m dying or death is dying, or something. But in me – inside of me.

 

I don’t have words for it, how sad I feel. And how sad sadness is. And it’s not even my sadness. It’s not selfish sadness. It’s the sadness of the world. So my Jewish modernists tell me, anyway.

 

The sadness is terrible, isn’t it? The way it presses down upon me, crushing me, I can’t stand it. And it’s not even mine. It’s not even about me. I mean, there’s nothing in my life that accounts for it.

 

I don’t feel anything. I’m just really tired all the time. Crying and crying. Because nothing connects with anything. There’s just death and death and death. That’s all.

 

It’s like it’s not my suicidal ideation. It’s the suicidal ideation of the age.

Oh how grand. Imagine, the Zeitgeist expresses itself through you. The Weltanschauung. Isn’t that amazing?

How do they cope in Sweden? With, like, no light?

They go all hygge.

That’s Denmark.

They go all coffee and cake.

That’s Norway.

So what do they do in Sweden?

Kill themselves.

That’s Finland. Very high suicide rate in Finland.

I think they drink.

Oh well they all drink in Scandinavia. They either drink themselves to death or suicide.

Fucking A.

I’m sure you should be in Berlin, or something, That’s where you belong. In some really complicated masochist relationship. With someone even more tortured than you are.

These are the times of the great reveal. When we finally understand what’s going on.

Like what?

Like that it is and always a complete shithole. That’s the best thing about the end times: we can what a shithole it always was.

*I’d like to take something world-annihilating. That’s the only drug I want. The, like, apocalypse drug. Is there a world-annihilating drug? Is there something that would really blow things up? Blow up my fucking MIND? Turn it fucking OFF?

I want to take something that lets me reach a mineral condition. I want to be a fucking rock. Nothing in my brain, and no brain, and no thinking, and no life, and never having lived at all. That’s what I want.

I feel outside of my own life. I feel outside of life. I feel shocked that anyone can actually see me. I feel numb. I feel detached.

 

If I was a chemist, I’d try and synthesise new drugs. That gave me new feelings.

What kinds of feelings?

Something other than doom.