To Everything Always Happening Anyway (first letter)

I notice you as I watch an old episode of Agatha Christie’s Poirot.  Some detectives stroll together along a rural English lane, busily expositing investigative theories.  It’s supposed to be taking place in the nineteen-thirties.  I admire the exactitude of the illusion, the complex considerations that have gone into the framing of the shots, the blocking of incongruous elements (representative of future decades), the minutia within the actors’ costumes and mannerisms, props and their placement, the palimpsestial layering of abstracted time and cultural signs, the spectacular but still indirect performance of connoisseurship and intelligence in the selection and deployment of all this stuff, the possibility of a totalizing simulation.
I knowingly suspend my disbelief.  It’s why I keep signing out this sort of thing from the library.  I want to be there, to enter the story.  I crave the narrative context.  The familiarity of structure encourages me somehow.  An existential assurance of purpose is provided (even though I’m still wondering what to do with myself).  It happens despite my inability to verify reality.
You’ve slipped into my mind and tossed out any value I once thought this had.  Poirot’s world was/is imposed upon others, maybe even the real one (if such a thing exists).  Now I wonder what isn’t an imposition on something else, an occupation, a colonizing rationalization or delusion, an ultimately pointless invention.  You persist everywhere despite this dilemma, in those leaves and twigs fluttering in the hedgerow behind the detectives, the small songbirds in silhouette, gliding above the damp background, oblivious to the stories created for and by the camera.  Imitations of life are so rarely distinguished from life itself.  Fictions often prevent it, but they can’t replace you.  Art won’t convey truths without your presence.
It’s as if I’ve solved a murder mystery with this realization, even though the use of an analogy right now contradicts everything I’ve been trying to suggest so far.  I can’t help it.  I want to be like you but I haven’t been able to pull it off.  To just be, to simply exist, is far too difficult for me.  I need to have reasons.  There has to be a story I can explain to myself.  I understand this now because of you.  I see the maddening absurdity of it, but I still pretend you’ve been a case-solving clue in plain sight.