A love letter

That which Descartes would define as the “mind” piece of the mind-body dichotomy spun itself a fine web of problems seemingly as complex as the neural connections constituting the corporeal component.

Abstractions stream, wave, boil and condense like multicolored lights spit through the prism-like mouths of the protagonists in my dreams, everyone speaking a different language. A post-modern nightmare or Candyland, who can be sure?

Problems: what is consciousness? What does it mean to be human? What does it mean to mean something? Where is the boundary between thing and non-thing, object and subject, action and reaction, existence and…oh, that’s an interesting one! In this list of dualities, the (complementary) opposite of existence should be non-existence, but if non-existence exists, it is, in fact, part of existence! Maybe this is the key to a door that leads nowhere, or maybe just a headache.

And the more concrete, yet equally confusing questions: why am I treated better because I have (am) white skin? How did it come to pass that on a planet so rich in resources and human creativity there is such a distribution issue that some people starve and stab each other, guts slashed, intestines sprawled out on pavement, sticky black blood coagulating around bullet holes and shredded skulls?

Who the fuck are these compañeros who philosophize and fornicate? Why do judges pay for the sexual services of prostitutes in a place where that is illegal, and why do vegetarians concerned with the suffering of factory-farmed animals purchase drugs that might have been the immediate cause of the aforementioned stabbing? Why do brothers rape sisters?

These concerns do not have a physical existence on this plane. But if you look at me in another universe, or perhaps simply in this one, but in a different way, you’ll see the impossibly dense mass I carry: the art of slaves who know that they are masters, the ones who know that they cannot know and furthermore can’t pass that information on to their neighbors and children; the tears that remained merely a heretical idea as my stepmother insisted that my father bruise my thighs with his hands and kitchen utensils…these weightless ideas are heavier than a black hole.

And it is with your feather-light kisses, mi vida, that my solar sails race at light speed toward my death, your death, every death and any, or creative destruction as Schumpeter and Lord Shiva might say. It is the trailing of your fingertips on my ribcage that attracts my physical density, my fractal infinity, my unbearably enormous burden, my raggedy half of the dichotomous duality to yours.

As our bodies collide and fuse together, some of the mass is converted to energy. This energy ripples through spacetime as gravitational waves, and also as a heartbeat for all the AIs and Boltzmann brains in the universe unlucky enough to have no ear to rest on someone’s chest like I do with you.

 

 

 

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