To The Invisible Man (first letter)

Dear You,
I can relate, at least I think I can.  I’ve also asked myself why I write – why I’ve tortured myself to put it down. I too have learned some things in spite of myself.   I now understand, or at least I think I understand, what you meant when you wrote that without the possibility of action, all knowledge comes to one labeled “file and forget” — I too can neither file nor forget.
There are certain ideas that won’t forget me either; they’re also filing away at my lethargy, my complacency. Why should I be like you, or seemingly like you, dreaming this nightmare? Why should I also be dedicated and set aside — yes again, if not also to tell at least a few people about it?
There seems to be no escape for me either. Like you, I’ve set out to throw my anger into the world’s face, but now that I’ve also tried to put it all down, the old fascination with playing a role (as you’ve put it) returns for me too, at least I think so, and I’m drawn upward again, just as you’ve been, or so I imagine. So, like you, or so I keep imagining, even before I finish I’ve failed (maybe my anger is also too heavy; perhaps too, being a talker like yourself, I’ve also used too many words).
I’ve failed too. The very act of trying to put it all down, as much as you have, or so I imagine, has confused me as well, negating some of the anger and some of the bitterness that I too have felt. So it is that I too now denounce and defend, or feel prepared to defend, just as you have, or so I imagine. I condemn and affirm too, say no and say yes as well, say yes and say no too.
I also denounce because, though implicated and partially responsible, as you’ve been, or so I imagine, I’ve also been hurt to the point of abysmal pain, as you’ve described it, at least I think so, hurt to the point of invisibility just like you, or so I imagine it. And I defend too because in spite of all, just like yourself, or so I keep imagining, I find that I love as well. In order to get some of it down, as you’ve done, I have to love too.
I also sell you no phony forgiveness, I too am a desperate man (this is an understatement) — but too much of your life, as you’ve written, will be lost, its meaning lost, as you’ve written it, unless you approach it, as you’ve written, as much through love as through hate again. So I also approach it through division.  I also denounce and I also defend and I also hate and I also love.
In going underground, as you have, or as I’ve imagined it, I also whipped it all, as you’ve put it, or so I imagine, except the mind, the mind too. And I also know the mind that has conceived a plan of living must never lose sight of the chaos against which that pattern was conceived, just as you’ve written, or so I believe.
I too know this goes for societies as well as for individuals. Thus, like you, or so I imagine, having tried to give pattern to the chaos which lives within the pattern of others’ certainties (as you’ve put it), I too must come out, I too must emerge.
I know you’re a fictive construct.  Perhaps I’m one too.  What if existence only occurs through the stories we tell ourselves and each other?  Who is what before a story is told?  I wrote to the Invisible Woman once.  I couldn’t see her either, but it’s as if I’ve known you both, more readily than myself throughout my life (or at least what I can now recall of it).
Thinking of you always,