“What now?”,

is what he asked himself, quite unoriginally. Except, maybe, for the quotation marks and comma in the title. It dawned on him self-referentiality might well be what he (hmm, not quite getting this sentence right?) was starting to refer to. Weird is what he was, but what was weird? (other than writing this in the past tense).

You with me? Was! Well, I lost my self. Then I regained one. Just to ask: “What now?” and that question is always in the past so always already answered but also always – all over – again and again ready to be asked; always all over. I am trying to make sense, you know, as did he (whom I am) did, starting all this on a whim.

More or less? You wanna know? Well, I do. So fuck you, here’s more.

Why did I fight the loss of me? Because it’s what we do. Why fight now I have a me? That is my live question. Why fight if you won the fight? And, without a fight, there’s no being alive. Supposedly (or at least so I suppose). The thing is I don’t know what to do now. I do know what I wanted to do. I know full well why I fought. I remember it about as clearly as I can still see it distinctly. The thing is that that all made sense from a point of view of having to fight but that point of view is no more. I wanted to prove I could do this. Well, I can.




I can feed myself bullshit. I don’t even need to. The bullshit is being fed to me from all the many orifices of this neoliberal technosociety’s ideal of a meritorious individual survivor of woes. We all need to be ‘despite men’: despite this and despite that we succeeded. Suck spite and spit suck right in the other’s eye. Weird are they who question it all – far to the left are they left to their own devices so they might perish to show the more the merit is of those making it – enduring it – despite all that existential shit.

Existential shit. Existencentential shit, I do think. And so did he (remember who he was, I am he). Objectify life and living it moves from being a compulsion to an obsession. There is a difference, you know. Giving into a compulsion gives one ease of mind. Being driven by an obsession is simply giving in to the fear of failure. Glaring gutter-bent neoliberalist failure. Not being worth to be a me worth keeping on board for any other reason than to show one’s own magnanimity in keeping the imperial thumbs up.

Because in this dog-eat-dog world of darkness only enlightened by Hobbes’ homo homini lupus idea, it stands to reason your either an emperor or a weirdo to be fed to the lions. I, nor he, am having any of it. We know each other well enough to know we did not do any of it alone. That’s why I fight, because there’s always a we and that we is threatened, also always all over again, by this idea of an ideal I. If you cannot relate to others, you cannot relate to yourself. You become just an artificial non-intelligence.

Fuck “I”.

That’s what’s now.

I am back. You with me?

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