The Philosopher’s Voice

The Philosopher’s Voice

“It’s a dream, an endless looping dream. We evolve from their template into something else, and when we reach maturity of mind, that certain level of science, they end us. By hook or by crook, we’re done for. There’s no hope. No happy ending. No golden tomorrow. We discover the undiscoverable then have the answer snatched away.”

“After that?”

“It starts all over again just somewhere else. Like I said, an endless looping dream.”

“So you’ve got it all worked out.”

“I have.”

“Not much point in living when you’ve nothing to live for.”


“So final.”


“No point watching the sunrise, sniffing the dawn, watching the snowdrops awaken.”


The younger man sipped his wine and stroked the wooden tabletop lingering perhaps longer than he should on the tactile texture of an intricate knot.

“Am I dreaming now?” he asked.


“And I’m dreaming you.”

“Yes!” said the philosopher with aplomb. 

“Without doubt?”


“Then please, God, let me wake up.”