To Whom It May Concern

To Whom It May Concern:

This is why you can’t forget. This is the reason that you can’t disconnect. This is the reason there are silent phone calls from lonely hands desperately clinging to the receiver, determined not to miss a single uttered syllable.

This is the reason there are those cliché chance meetings of old memories in cute places like mall parking lots.

This is the reason that desire is ensnared by trembling lips (oh how it wishes to be set free, to become substantial. It waits impatiently to express itself as a timid confession, or an illusionary caress trapped between fantasy and reality. [You want it to be real so bad you can taste it. We all can.] )

This is the reason you tremble. Your body’s soft tremors explode upon you as the titillating crescendo of hellish pleasure confiscates your starving nerve endings and makes them its own.

This is what intrigues you to the point of insanity. You want to know so bad—to be a part of it—to become a part of it. This is your channel to the chaos of life, of existence outside the American Dream. This is the spirit of Lord Byron, of Jack Kerouac, of Shakespeare.

These are emotions we can’t control. These are the tsunamis of Fortune crashing over us while we atone ourselves with a constant flow of sacrificial tears.

This is a fact: “They say that if your pupils are dilated when you are talking to somebody it means you are attracted to them.” See what happens when angels whisper the secrets of God into the ears of sleeping men? Now we spend all of our time gazing into the eyes of the potential authors of our epic love story (searching for a great cavern of endless black hope).

This is a timid confession: When you look into my eyes, it feels like you are trying to break through the shallow surface and journey farther down the rarely-trodden paths that lead to those places where the most tender perceptions lie . Sometimes I wonder if you are trying to explore the barriers of my soul in hopes of discovering that tiny infraction, that one open spot that will allow you to enter triumphantly. What then? Would you explore all that you saw? Gracious God forgive us, we have sinned. This is just an issue, an unexpected pleasure brought to us by Fate (sweet blessings upon her, whoever she is).

These are the scenes from the life of a screaming god. I would wake up but this has become all that is real to me. What am I going to do? Am I Cursed? Sometimes it feels like a hopeless burden ( or an exquisite torture). Yes I cry. But who doesn’t cry because beauty always lies? Change your mind. Do it. If it were that easy it wouldn’t be worth it. So I remain unrated, hopelessly fated, never jaded, and elegantly understated. I don’t know what to do. For when I dream now, there are things like sitting on fallen trees in sunlit woods and laughing about the notion of it and smiles that cover faces like murals of joy.

That is what this is. If it were a color it would be all of them at once. If it were a hologram of Shakespeare it would flirt with your muse. If it were the Penguin King it would commit suicide (sadly, some cannot cope with universal shifting. The burden of Chaos becomes too much for them). If it were Buddha it would be going home. And if it were jack shit, more people would know it.

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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 January 19, 2012, in Author, Fiction, Philosophy, Religion and Spirituality, Uncategorized, writing and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. 1 Comment.

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