To Writing From The Woods (first letter)

Why do I bother with you? You’ve got me following your trail. You seem to know what I think I want.
Freedom gets reconfigured within your wanderings and can no longer stand as an empty signifier. Independence, interdependence, suffering, decision making with Life in the balance — all lead you from word to word.
You know nothing of vacations.
All living things become partners. The idea of resources is transformed into an indecipherable category. Control wanders off and gets lost.
You deploy the prisons of language and perception against themselves, rejecting civilization and its costs. You make a case for the inherent decency of human beings liberated from the cruel injustices of Society.
You set an enchanting trap for the wild beasts of Doctrine.
Even Death is remade through your scribblings, from a harbinger of the end to an agent of the infinite, an integrator of all transience through the illusion of time, the artist of the seasons.
Charlatans keep trying to employ you, fertilizing your pages with the rot of their desires.
Each sophomoric attempt to imagine Nature as God’s replacement, each claim of a New Age, exposes predatory opportunism, attempts to wring the last dregs of imperial remorse and modern alienation from a purpose-impoverished and slowly suffocating multitude.
You outlast these foul violations, even when caught up in your own transcendental rejections of intellect, but the stink can stick for a longtime.
I almost didn’t try to know you.