To The Last Thing I Wrote (first letter)

Yes – I really did decide somehow.   You were going to be that one continuous filament, entwining within and around yourself, constantly braided up by your passage, twisting and imbrication, getting heavier, denser, more solid, while still always critically feeble, portending to undo, with the most negligible of accidental burdens or complication, with readers misguided by distress, the anticipation of impending disintegration, but of course, and after all, none of what I decided actually took place
(not yet anyway)
and perhaps it never should or will, even though the probability continues to nag the most theoretically bright and restrained states of my consciousness, despite my disappointment and manic emptiness, and may continue to do so until, at long last, you really do come into being, in a manner that suggests you’ve always already visited, fully formed, direct and complete, in part because I too, despite having been your author, will likely be the same as any other reader to address you, never recalling what we both were or where my head was at as we began our relationship, or as I started to worry about your unraveling, or what we were doing at any point in any related development beyond whatever happened to be the present moment at the time and I will most likely wonder, forever after, who has written what, and who is reading whom, and what, and if anyone is ever connecting somehow to someone or something held in common
(with you always insisting on my prompt focus, my absolute absorption, before any such concerns can ever reveal themselves, so as not to displace the cohesion of you, to have you escape, beyond my sights, through the chicanery of order I might unwittingly retain until the apex of such a catastrophic juncture, such a failure to grasp)
and this is likely when I’ll begin to consider that you were/are a kind of impassable accounting, that the particular architecture you’ve arranged so precisely, this specific category you’ve settled, diffused and reinvented, has been an a priori certitude, if only because you’ll surely encompass everything I’ve ever thought of and cultivated in perpetuity, with such ardent design, such enslaving singularity, that any sense of the continually transitional here-and-now of the text, the writing as it’s read, will erase all other forms of scrutiny and incremental anamnesis, to the extent that no one, including myself, will ever be able to remember your title, except perhaps at that absent moment of the start, or the assorted,  abandoned title ideas, stock-piled silently over the course of my entire life and mentioned in passing throughout the remainder of your existence, such as Little Captain,  My Head Hurts Like Fire, Of What Really Went On There We Only Have This Excerpt,  etc…
We still have time to work this out — to absolve me of all desire.