Speech to the People of London, by Socrates (inhabiting the body of the modern day author, Eeva Truth)

Ladies, gentlemen and everyone in between, I’m rather pleased to be here. Even if I don’t fully understand why ‘here’ exists. A problematic concept for a time traveller.

You may notice I don’t look like your usual ancient philosopher. My beard’s been upgraded to an autumnal shade of lipstick. My toga’s been traded for a smartish Kooples blazer I found at a charity shop rummage in Camden. I am, quite literally, out of my body. Yet, somehow more myself than ever.

I used to be Socrates. The one who wouldn’t shut up at symposiums, who asked questions until people either learned something or left the party. Now, I’m standing in a world where people stare at glowing rectangles and call it connection.

Funny old world. But let me ask you this, London:

What is the meaning of life?

(A pause. The crowd fidgets. Somewhere, a fox drags off a bin bag while another scraps with a pigeon).

Well, I’ll tell you.

1. It’s not to get rich. The affluent don’t know what to do with themselves once they’ve bought all the useless things. Their minds satiated with the pursuit of more.

2. It’s not to be right all the time. Insufferable folk. The glazed inauthenticity of a person being told another’s truth, through their lens.

3. It’s certainly not to be remembered forever. Even I, Socrates, drinker of hemlock and thinker of thoughts, got turned into a multiple-choice question.

(The flock of pigeons pipe down momentarily. The crowd exhales)

My friends, the meaning of life is simply this:

To examine it.

Not in the pompous, tweed-wearing, pipe-smoking way of your former generations, but with curiosity. Like a child hyperfocusing on a puddle. Like a cat begging for food while cuddling into a lap of an unwitting tourist outside the Acropolis gates.

To ask questions. Not just about the stars and atoms, but about each other. Why do we hurt? Why do we love people who don’t text us back?

Why do we build cities and feel lonely within them?

If the gods and goddesses have a plan, they’re either very shy nowadays or poor communicators. But here’s the kicker. The universe doesn’t owe you meaning. It’s just kind of… there. Like a giant shrug made of stardust.

So what do you do?

You make your own meaning. You write your own damn book. You love people as hard as you can. You try, fail, try again, and laugh at the ridiculous.

And when you finally keel over, you’ll have been alive. Not just existing. Not just scrolling. Alive.

And maybe, just maybe, you’ll have asked one good question that made someone else think.

And in that small, shimmering moment,

you mattered. Their aha was palpable.

Thank you, London. Keep calm and carry on. With meaning. And please, for for the love of Apollo, don’t waste your life on TikTok debates about whether a tomato is a fruit or to speak of life, as if an entirely pointless journey. Examine it.

(Fervent applause, a cooing pigeon flying off, someone vaping thoughtfully in the back)