Work in Progress

God, what did I fall into? What am I doing with my life? Aren’t I doing the most stupid thing possible with my life?


Sometimes I have utter, complete contempt for … everyone alive. Including me. Most of all me.


Do you know why we’re here on Earth? To learn how to despise what we are, so we can be someone else.



I don’t even loathe myself very interestingly, not like you philosophers. You’re very good at that. You’re virtuosos.

The way we’re speaking. Who’s speaking in our places? Who’s saying things for us? Who’s speaking for me? Who’s taking our places?


Just words, streaming through us. Talking about talking. Talking about … Nothing, philosopher. NOTHING, in capital letters.


There’s something I have to say. And I’m searching for it, philosopher. I’m trying to find the words. And let the words surprise me.

Because you have a more advanced soul than anyone else. Because you’re deeper. More profound. Because you feel things more profoundly. Is that it?


You’re not bothered by all the trivial things. You soul soars higher – is that it? You’re altogether better. You’re plain superior to the rest of us.

You’d like to be some terrible threat, but you’re not. Face it. Do you think the Mother would have let you in, if you weren’t?

How would it know?

Based on, like, all your past behaviour. On all the data she’s gathered about you.

I could surprise you. I could just … flip out.

Go on then: flip away.

Philosophy: fucking up the world, one student at a time.

Sure, we’ve been corrupting the young since ancient Athens. That’s what Socrates was killed for.

You teach them how to despise the world. How to cultivate their fucked-up-ness.

Legitimising all their adolescent bullshit. Making them think that being fucked up is part of the nature of being, or whatever.

Making them dwell in some perpetual bad mood.

Don’t think that I’m magnetised by your darkness, philosopher. Don’t think you’re drawing me into your abyss. I actually have an abyss of my own. I have my own … despair.


What’s the meaning of meaning, philosopher? Is that the kind of thing a philosopher asks? What’s it All About?


I’m discovering my philosophical side. Saying things that are probably terribly gauche in the humanities. Philosophically naïve …

You guys have been angsting away for decades. You’re experts at this. And I think I can just … talk into the air.


Am I fucked up, or just philosophical?

Do you feel what I feel? Do you feel it? Do you know it?

Something bigger than us. Something greater than us. Something horrible.

That’s poisoning us. And lying to us. And lying through us.


Are we damned, philosopher? What does that word mean: damned? Who would use a word like that: damned? Only a mad person. Or a religious person. All the real words have to come from religion now. They’re the only words that will suffice.


So evil – so, so evil. I sense it. I know it’s real. They have plans for us – terrible plans. They’ll destroy us. Worse.


What am I feeling, philosopher? What’s wrong with me? Do you feel it, too?

We made a mistake. Somewhere, there was a mistake. Do you feel that, philosopher? I’ve felt it for years.

That there’s something wrong with it all, with … everything. That’s what I feel sometimes. That it’s all wrong.

I just want to die, to die, to die. And float upwards into the sky. Is that what happens when you die?


This isn’t our world, is it? This isn’t even our dream. This isn’t our sleep.

This isn’t who we are. These aren’t our lies. These aren’t our lives. Someone dreamt this all up. We don’t belong here. To this. This isn’t our world. We’re not part of this.


We’re lost in someone’s dream. Not our dream. We’re lost in what someone wants for us. Someone wicked.

I’m confused, philosopher. But it’s not my confusion.


You lose yourself. Lose hold of yourself. Just disperse into the air. That’s what happens. Your attention just … floats away. Who you are. What you care about.

That’s what it’s like being me.


It’s just like … detachment I’m infinitely detached. That’s my problem. I’m not attached to anything. Not even Organisational Management. I don’t even believe in O.M. And if I don’t believe in O.M, what then?


It’s like I’m too vague. I’m not even tuned in, really. I don’t come into focus. Not even for myself. Except when I talk sometimes. Like now. But I never really talk like this.


I don’t know what I’m saying. I don’t know what I mean. I’m not saying what I mean. But what’s better than saying what I mean.

Is the world actually worth saving? Can you be bothered to save it? Aren’t there better things to do?

Like what? Like … hanging out, philosopher. Like fooling around. Like romance …