Your Inner Philosopher

People love to memorise stupid facts and then proudly tell us that they are ‘educated’. They then become utterly insufferable, of course. Utterly, utterly insufferable. They become frankly unbearable. We all know that. God save us from the educated, huh? The bastards are everywhere. There is in fact a whole industry dedicated to producing them, a whole bloody industry. How do you like that, huh? What do you think about that?

 

I’d like to say that there are no flies on me but there are, and rather a lot of them too. They seem to like me. They really do. ‘They like me, they like me, they like me a lot’, I say to myself. It’s a little song that I sing. A happy little song. In this world it’s good to have friends. So they say, anyway. So I am told, at any rate. Personally, I wouldn’t know…

 

‘What’s it all about?’ I ask myself, but I don’t really want to know. I don’t really care. Or rather it isn’t that I don’t care but rather that the words I speak don’t actually mean anything to me. They mean nothing. I just say them automatically, just so as to have something to say, really. It’s a verbal tic, so to speak. To tell the truth, I don’t even know what it means to ask ‘what’s it all about’. I don’t know and I don’t care.

 

The days are long and dreary and the nights are full of fear. Story of my life, that is. Story of my life. People try their best to live interesting lives, I know that for a fact, but eventually they give up the struggle. Eventually we all have to give up the struggle…

 

‘What’s it all about’, you might ask yourself, ‘just what the hell is it all about?’ If you actually cared, that is, which almost certainly you don’t. Caring is something that gets eroded over time, like bright metal in a strongly oxidising atmosphere. It takes some special ingredient to care, I suspect. Some special ingredient that gets depleted all too quickly in this appallingly mechanical world of ours. Some special philosophical ingredient, might we say? The death of the inner philosopher, the unfortunate and untimely death of the poor old inner philosopher. We’re walking graveyards, when it comes down to it…

 

What would that inner philosopher say to us, if he weren’t dead and gone? That’s a good question, wouldn’t you say? There’s a good question for you – if that’s what you’re looking for (which it almost certainly isn’t). An intriguing question, a telling question, a deeply significant question. I hate it when people talk, I hate it when they open their mouths and talk say things. It makes me shudder; it makes me wince. ‘Why do they have to do that?’ I wonder. ‘Wouldn’t it be so much better if they didn’t?’

 

 

 

 

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