To The Axiomatic Subject (first letter)

Dear You,


Is your existence a matter of opinion?  Some say you’re definable, definite, an Infinite Being, the personification of mathematics as ontology.  I don’t think I’ve ever really understood it.  I’ve remained unsure of your humanity or what humanity might mean regardless.  It’s hard to think of you as me, a me that was there before I began to think of and for myself, or perhaps before and after I seemed to think at all.  If I’ve only ever seemed to think, who knows it and how?

I imagine us staring at each other, like a deer and hunter or machine and operator might.  How do we know who either of us are and what we’re really all about?  Who is who?  Your knowledge and mine are alien to each other.  What’s the Truth about either of us?
I can’t conceive of you.  I’ve tried and keep trying.  I want to believe that you’re me without a concept, that you’re devoid of conceptualization.  It scares me to consider this, but it’s a strangely pleasurable fear, a kind of shoddy, simulacral sublime, generated by my own Romantic inclinations.  It has no concrete relationship with this absence of certainty about who and what you could actually be.
What is an incomprehensible intelligence?  Are either of us intelligent?  Am I the One and you the Zero?  Are we co-dependent?  If you are the Zero can you be counted?  I like to think so but that doesn’t make it Truth.  I don’t get numbers.  I don’t understand myself.
Imagine an originary agency for all of Being — an inevitable end to the deferral of the Universal, of Justice, Love, Peace and Understanding in common.  I pretend you are immutable in the face of all relational constructs, of each and every contradictory epistemology, that you prove something is at stake in fighting for a Better World.
I’ve tried to grasp your potential in this way, the significance of your possible existence, but in the end what I would need to hold onto must stay outside of my surroundings, my archive and vocabulary.  I can’t explain you without explaining you away, without rendering you less than a ghost.
Spectres haunt.  Explication erases.  My absolutism is a violence that is always without precedent.  No wonder you avoid me.
You’re devoid of intent or narrative.  Your absence is a persistence, a survival.  You’ll never be less than a Zero to me.
There’s strength in numbers.  I’ll always admit this, no matter how much they elude my comprehension.  I want you to be counted.