To The World As It Is (first letter)

You haven’t exhausted me yet but I do feel fatigued.
Sometimes I’m sure I’ve got it all figured out (what is wrong with us and how I can reconcile or even transform it) but then I get tired, worn out, convinced my insights have been constructed in a vacuum, or else I get caught up in some silly concern, a superego detour full of tedious, headache-inducing angst, a wounding pointlessness mistaken for all that matters, or else I fall in love with an idea of what you could be, or an idea of what you might’ve been, or some conception of something within you in the moment, or I feel as though I’m falling in love for the first time even though I’m supposed to be in love already, or my heart is slowly compressed with shame and remorse, or perhaps I simply forget whatever I think I’ve figured out because of the passage of time.  I’m of two minds, five minds, eight, or I have a change of heart, permanently misplacing whatever I initially presumed to understand, or else…
I read and I re-read, think and re-think, do and do again, returning to what is already something else, and I am always something else too, forming and reforming with the ongoing reinventions of memory and the senses.  I pretend this is a conscious process, as if I’m constantly advancing a dialectical relationship between my most recent engagements with you and what’s gone on before, but I know I’m pretending as I pretend.  I’m overcome by a desire for a concrete form of agency despite these conditions, something that is as real as the babies reduced to pulp in Gaza last week, but there’s only horror for the taking, a sense that betterment is a delusional concept, that there has never been and never will be some sort of culminating reconfiguration of your being through culture, knowledge, empathy, justice – that every instance of revelation is a false start, a misdirection, an instantaneous becoming and loss so immediate that we never recognize it for what it is.
You haven’t exhausted me yet but I do feel fatigued.  There’s little else I can put to you with certainty.  This is about it for now:  Injustice exists but doesn’t have to.  I’m kept alive in struggle, as tired as I am, but with each passing moment you die a little bit.