To The First Humans (third letter)

The more I’ve thought about writing to you again, the more hyper and confused I’ve become.  I can’t keep my stories straight.  I’m unsure of what I’m mis-remembering, inventing or what.  Metaphors get mixed up.  My mind has been overrun with questions, second thoughts and other digressive predicaments.  Will my mounting anxieties subside by writing to you now, or is every beginning, no matter how modest or imaginary, an instigation of further unraveling?  How would you, of all people, have any inkling?  Some say you’re the beginning of a fully-formed consciousness, an event that culminates in astronauts looking back at the planet from space, as if Life were literally seeing itself, as if you were to become us, the eyes of a larger and much more complex animal called Earth (a suicidal aberration?), but if that were the case, even just a little bit, surely you wouldn’t be conscious of it.  How do you know you’ve begun if you don’t know who or what you are, where you’ve come from or where you’re going?  Have you ever been this clueless?  Are we still, or did we lose ourselves after your passing?
I can’t imagine what you’d make of a space suit.  I picture you unadorned, skirting phenomenological experience as an event horizon.  It’s not like you’re going through what those punk kids did, growing up a couple of decades after the last world war.  No need to get into it now.  There’s going to be so much you’ll wish you didn’t know once you know about it.  Thank goodness this letter won’t be sent.  Anyway, there they were, born into poverty, playing in the rubble, making dresses out of bin liners and safety pins during garbage strikes, the dismantling of society and revolutionary politics, tales of trickle-down economics, the entrenchment of the Me Generation, acid rain, the professionalization of everything, rumors of The Beginning Of The End.  You don’t have these stories yet.  When did/do you start telling your own?  How can we hear them now?
I remember asking (in one of those other letters I haven’t been able to send you) if you knew you were going to die.  Do you discover beginnings, middles and ends?  I imagine a tragically brief, unrepeatable moment, paradoxically out of time, with no accumulation of destruction to deal with or ignore, no shame to address or sublimate.
Maybe your almost-human parents were already symbolically minded cyborgs too.  Everything I’ve ever thought about you would be off the mark.  Here I am speculating again.  Can you know what I mean by speculation?  I pretend everything in your life is unprecedented, that there’s been no frame of reference, no irony, no metaphysical paralysis.  I imagine returning to you and claiming a neglected inheritance.
We’ve put the world in metonymic bondage, as if representation threaded the fabric of reality.  I hope this is forever lost on you, that you and I are different in this one respect, that you verify a common, lost ability to encounter things as they are, in and of themselves, to find ourselves in being rather than signage.  It’s a story about all of us that I want to be true.  The irony here isn’t lost on me of course, but I just can’t seem to help myself.
I’ll write again soon,