the untenable jingo of a heaviness

"One of the universal rules of happiness is: always be wary of any helpful item that weighs less than its operating manual."

— (Terry Pratchett, Jingo)

Dear Diary,

I miss you. The dust doesn’t care but to cover flat surfaces meticulously. None the less. I forget what for. Is it missing I am doing? Fingertips cake after a brief pressing down. An after matter: To be rubbed away. Impractical, and rude. So a sleuth of wind (a secret measurement) interjects meaning to a room. A room I live in with or without you; how small matters.

Nevermind. I am replacing you permanently with another diary. I am replacing you with one which has no operating manual. It would be much too arduous, in fact impossible to write. I make no excuse, it’s just that. Such a thing makes me feel so therefore-ish, congenially speaking. In other words one considers the tasks at hand. In properness, I am writing the operating manual to you while I replace you. This will go on for as long as it has to in order to dissolve my abandonment issues. I am in one valid mood about you continuously. I like to say definitely, but if I speak ill I trust you will keep a record.

This is less a superficial homage than you might leap to argue. Please listen, to these illicit figures I pronounce by construct; I mean I construct them this way (figuratively), for a very dark reason that counts. Or I mean watch out! I have imagined you over, many a time. And I am no Aristotle. (Nor Pope, nor Valery, nor Homer). Least of all John Paul.

I imagine this whole thing is an idea: your manual of operation. A manual inwhich I will attempt to express a nature separate from which you represent—specifically for the purpose of protecting my sensitive areas [in particular whatever immortal parts of me remain undead]—from which (yes, again) you represent. As a Diary of course: nothing less. You must remain utterly hypothetical, and I must love you or I don’t. You are conditional and you have been verified. There is mercury in the barometer you are, holding as still as a bullet. But holding still, as a bullet cannot. There is a grammatical difference between bullet and mercury…

Am I not allowed to humor you? You used to laugh. I remember your racecar fast eyes forgetting to come to a conclusion—those were happier times. The rules were general, the contradictions mildly pathetic, and the galaxies flashing above weighed immensity, eternity, infinity. All these words were inescapable. I wonder if I should use them in the manual…I wasn’t thinking of that. But I will consider this, and also types of automobiles.

I do not know if there will be a moral to your story. This will eventually be converted into a limitation, and thereby particularized in random creation. Tit for tat. I will distribute the episodes, each as an assertion—not a proposition—which will become square in time. As square as we are doubtful of each other. Yesterday was a good day is not as true as it was Tuesday. I am bound to be consistently inferring this way to maintain a balance. Mine, dear Diary. So please commence imagining a faith for us. One that frees God from page numbers. I will count on the sound it makes to guide me…but then, other sounds too.

Please do not feel obligated to reply.