Each of us, in his own way, is approaching the end.
In W.'s new office, his desk is pushed up against the wall. There are no windows, though he knows it's raining outside. It must be. In my office, the windows are so filthy I can't see whether it's raining or not. W. hears the distant sound of sobbing and wonders if it's him. I hear a distant mewling, and wonder if it's me.
Why can't we give up? Why press ourselves on? Why, despite everything, do we cling to life? It must be some instinct, W. says. Some residue of natural life. But then, too, our instincts have always been wrong. They've always led in the wrong direction. We're not just careless of our lives, we've wrecked them.
It's all our fault, W. always insists. Somehow, it's all due to us, and especially me. I should bear the brunt, W. says. I should be a human shield.
Lars Iyer's Blog 