To The Embalmers (first letter)

Time has been accelerating. I don’t want you to meet me like this.
In-between times rush past. They used to overwhelm me, but now I only notice them after they’re over.
I’ve been waking up a stranger to myself. Nothing ever seems like the thing I thought it was. I don’t want you people touching me after I’m gone.
Now anything can hold my gaze. I’m afraid to look away.
Birds have been falling from the sky in the thousands. I’ve started to enjoy chamber music without really understanding it. The polar ice caps are leaving. Sunsets seem brighter each evening. They’re becoming luminescent. I could swear I’m starting to feel the rotation of the Earth.
The things you arrest become tawdry, vulgar props. They dramatize the paradoxical impossibility of absolutes.
I want to bury them, return them to processes of decay and regeneration.
They expose contradictions in the idea of me.
Unverifiable declarations are circulating in good faith:
There are no subects or objects.
We are all fellow travelers.
There’s no such thing as repetition.
Permanence is a notion in flux, kept alive by difference and its insistence.
I can’t remember the last time I was bored.
Everything I see now holds my gaze — I’m afraid to look away.
Please just leave me be in the end.