To The World As It Is (second letter)


You’re still exhausting, unnerving me when I think it’s no longer possible (again).
I’ve allowed myself to slip back into old habits since I first wrote to you.  I’m still convinced I can figure it all out (what is wrong with us and how I can reconcile or even transform it — also what is wrong despite me) but then, as before, I get tired, worn out, convinced my insights have been constructed in a vacuum (could this be the case right now?), or else I get caught up in some silly concern, a superego detour full of tedious, headache-inducing angst (is this happening again as I write? – every time I write?), a wounding pointlessness mistaken for all that matters (but not this time – it can’t be), or else I fall in love with an idea of what you could be (or else I imagine I have), or an idea of what you might’ve been, or some conception of something within you in the moment (the analysis can seem endless), or else I feel as though I’m falling in love for the first time even though I’m supposed to be in love already with so much (how much love can one have and give and what if I don’t really know what love is? – but of course I do or you wouldn’t bother me so much in the first place and everything I care about would be something else entirely), or else my heart is slowly compressed with shame and remorse (even in this instance, this moment of confession), or perhaps I simply forget whatever I think I’ve figured out because of the passage of time (writing it down was supposed  to help me combat this process but…).  I’m obviously still of two minds, five minds, eight.  I still have changes of heart, permanently misplacing whatever I initially presumed to understand, or else I return to something now unrecognizable…
You keep reminding me that I’m feeling, that I am reading and re-reading, thinking and re-thinking, doing and doing again, returning to what is already something else, even now, and I still find that I am always something else too, forming and reforming with the ongoing reinventions of memory and the senses (mine and others too), and, of course, the perpetually unexpected depravity of you.  I still pretend this is a conscious process, as if there is a dialectical relationship between us that I am guiding somehow.  I’m pretending as I pretend again.  I remain desperate for agency despite these conditions, despite my fatigue.  I too want to instigate concrete change – something as immediate and irrefutable as the latest American betrayal of the Kurds two days ago – but it must be something to serve the common good, honouring those who have altered you for the better already.
What is happening to the noble women of Rojava as I write this?  Only horrors come to mind.  They are refusing to leave me.  Your breadth has encompassed direct democracy, applied libertarian-socialist principles, feminist and ecological consciousness in practice, decentralized, collective dignity.  It’s as if it’s been too much to bear for you, but it has happened – and it’s not over yet.
I was not expecting more heartbreak.  It’s been commonplace for so long.  I thought I was gaining immunity.  I’m fighting all over again, resisting claims that there’s 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.  The repetition of my resistance does not diminish the impact of each new indecency you generate — this latest assault has torn my guts out.
Possibility remains no matter how many times you deny it.  Injustice exists but doesn’t have to.  We can rebuild for as long as it takes.  I must repeat this too:  I’m kept alive in struggle, as harrowed as I am, but with each passing moment you die just a little bit more – yes, even now, as the blood of better selves is wantonly splattered across the north east of Syria.