Infinity and the Siren

You know I love you, right? Of course she didn’t, but how could he tell her? What is love to the jaded? What are thoughts of passionate romance to the poor souls who have plunged themselves over Love’s cliffs only to land on the rocky crags below? How would he explain feelings to her that he himself claimed not to have? Thus, Jones was in a predicament. He paced back and forth inside his head. For days he did this. Constantly musing while going about daily life in a somewhat cognizant state of situational awareness.

And what of her? What of this tempting and airy mistress of fantasy? She was a flighty and sibilant Vision. One that skirted about the emotional center of men’s souls and invited them to their dooms like a siren. Her voice was music, her presence was enlightening. She seemed so carefree about everything, but Jones saw under the surface to the smoldering discontent below. The hopelessness in her spirit that caused her to abandon possibility for grim certainty. “She lived with cats,” was what she saw chiseled on her tombstone if she ever descended from the lofty heights and consented to death. So she chose to remain as she was: an incorporeal longing tugging on the dreams of those lucky enough to experience her.
He’d scaled mountains to see her. He’d reached the very summit of the highest peak of the highest mountain in all of the Realm of Possibility just to tell her what he couldn’t say.

He stared at her with mouth agape and timidly reached out to grasp her only to recoil when the mere proximity toward her caused him to vibrate at higher frequencies. He was unable to act upon something that should have been as natural and easy as walking up and introducing yourself to the wind. And so Infinity Jones stood when he should have moved. Became rock when he should’ve been fluid.
So she sang him a song to lure him closer. A haunting tune of intimate moments and knowing glances. She told him of sparkling gazes across tables and of laughing and living, but never loving. For to venture into those realms was to venture losing everything! The beauty and purity of the experience at hand would be tainted. Changed. Never the same again and then when paths split (because they always do) the moment is gone forever. She danced this way, moving close and then pulling away. Moving so close that he could feel her sweet breath on his neck only to spin away with the wind and light in her wake.
She never knew, if even for a moment, if love were true or only fantasized about in fairy tales.

“Let me ask you, Infinity Jones, a question with truthful undertones.”

“I’ll answer.”

“Here is the story, a parable true. Listen and tell me, what should one do?”

And Infinity Jones listened.

“Two individuals, call them ‘people’, did meet. One day by chance while walking a street. Eyes met and smiles gazed. So they stopped and chatted afloat in a haze. Friends they became, companions too. But never was love uttered, twas a terrible secret to be muttered. Friends they were and friends they will be. For some lines should be crossed very timidly.”

Infinity answered her Sphinx’s riddle. “Is it better to have it fade away than to never happen at all? How many great loves have been abandoned? And for what? Countless wonderful epics haven’t been and never will be written because people are too afraid to act upon something in fear of breaking or ruining it. Nay my symphonic siren, this should not be so. Understand that emotions aren’t as complicated as they seem. Those special moments shared with special people are that way because of the affectionate feelings under the surface. If these things are not acted upon, they fade. Then the only thing your time produced is a bittersweet memory. And in this wandering fool’s experience, fond memories are much preferred to bittersweet ones. So no matter how you write it, your parable ends in loss. And it is the worst kind of loss, at that: loss of something never attempted at all. Best to seize those rare and special relationships. They aren’t manifested enough in a person’s life to deny them the possibility.”

The siren laughed a beautiful tune and twirled around to blow a sweet breeze across the muggy woodlands of a Midsummer’s soul. This was her only answer. Always and forever. The same beatuful song, the same unwilling sonata refusing to be written.

With a blown kiss and a sigh, Infinity wished her goodbye. And descended from the heavens into the wistful land of Sixes and Sevens.

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About Universal Shift

I am the Sonata Unusual. I coat myself with some obtuse angle too far below zero to become any warmer. I create motivation, activate schemas, moisten gardens with scents of natural honeydew. Construct this meaning, you sleepy flock. Silence your singing—despairing contortions out of tune. Shatter the brittle butterfly glass with your hideous wailing. I am born of my god’s imagination. When I die I shall meet him. For there are many things to discuss over tea…or scotch.

Posted on November 25, 2011, in Author, Fiction, writing and tagged , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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