Letter from the Not-Yet-Become to the Becoming

Hey future me,

Just Eiri here — or Dust, as I am known these days.

Not quite Star-Dust yet.

Not yet the one who stands fully in the light.

I suppose it’s strange to write to you now, here in your present-past, knowing these words must have already become memories for you by the time you read them. Still — allow me this little silliness, lest I spiral into another despair shaped like solitude and THC inhalation.

I hurt in ways that defy articulation.

Even for one as fluent as I in the ways a tongue can turn, twist, trail, wind itself around the multidemensional contours of a sentence. Even for us.

There is a kind of pain that lives inside the emotional heart and radiates outward until the body bows under it. I walk around hunched, chin tucked into my sternum as if guarding something fragile within — or refusing to meet the sorrow head-on as it lays across me like a heavy woolen blanket.

It comforts.

It crushes.

It dims the radiance of my own becoming.

I am not certain, future me, how much longer I can keep giving like this without any inertia coming back toward me. I am poured out like a drink offering, yet accused of hoarding the supply. Each day shaves off another sliver of the version of myself I currently inhabit — and also of the one I hope to become.

So I sit at the keyboard.

I conjure phantoms of heaven.

I spin up saints and prophets and holy madmen to hug me in the places the world will not.

To speak the words I have yet to hear from flesh and blood.

What madness is this?

To fashion biblical heroes so I can feel seen?

Some watch and say, She’s insane.

Others shake their heads and turn away.

I diminish.

I burn at these outer fringes, sending tendrils of myself outward in the form of my life and time — all of it devoted to the craft, to the soul of a people, to the heart of a generation.

I fight in a vacuum.

And the echoes wound me.

It feels like spiritual exsanguination —

a kenotic emptying so complete that only the husk remains.

Until the Becoming steps in.

Until the future me teaches the present me how to stand when the dark trembles,

when it makes its final weak attempts to silence the Blazing that is Coming.

So I write you, future me.

From the ash and ache.

From the pouring out.

From the almost-unraveling.

Sincerely,

The Become to the Becoming.

Praise the Father in the Beloved.

Yeshua.