To My Waking Self (second letter)

I can’t tell who’s who anymore.  Perhaps I never could.  Do you remember the first time I wrote you?  The letter wasn’t sent of course.  I was trying to describe one of our dreams — another you’d soon forget.  I wanted to convey the elusive profundity I sensed within it — even though the banality of dreams is most likely compounded in recounting them.  I know you must know this.  You’ve had more than enough experience.  Thinking of it now, I doubt the attempt was worthwhile at all.  It wouldn’t be the first time.  And besides, what if it wasn’t a dream? What if you’re me and I’m you?  What is anyone to do with the unverifiable?
Have you noticed that you’re an artist that won’t engage with being an artist when an artist is only recognized as an artist in relation to the existence of non-artists, that you’re an employee repulsed with being an employee when an employee can only exist in relation to those who don’t have to work for a living, that you’re an intellectual that can’t act like an intellectual when others aren’t allowed to be intellectuals?  Maybe I’m asking myself here.  Which one of us resists a world-as-it-is in vain?
How do we decide if there’s some sort of us?  What would be our collective ambition?  I hope it’s our decision to make.  There’s a lot to determine before we can ask what we can know and desire together, how we’ll come to understand it, why we should…  I suspect we’re estranged because our identities are no longer our own.  Maybe they never were.  The people supplying them are not our friends.  I know you must know this.  You’ve had more than enough experience.  For now (a seemingly perpetual meantime) I’m left wondering if society is a dream, if the nightmare of our atomization is real.  How do we find each other?
Who is sleeping and who is conscious?  How does the latter rescue the former?  The guardians of sleep must be destroyed.