To Whom It May Concern: Sincerely

To Whom It May Concern

To Whom It May Concern: P.S.

Apparently the Devil has taken a fancy to me. Not that it’s a bad thing to be showered in her blessed glitter, that’s not what I’m trying to say. I guess what I am really trying to say is that there are these patterns I keep trying to figure out. You know, those quaint little idiosyncrasies of humanity that define us, labeling us WHO WE ARE (or something like that). I have a secret to tell you. A hidden answer to confess. You want to hear it? [When you felt like absolute harmony every moment was wrapped in some kind of indescribable honeysuckle fantasy.] A gift under the influence of an abstract concept. What does it take for people to dream together? Do you know? The results are in! The Princess of Swords is on the rise, closely following the fiery Princess of wands into abandonment to desire. (You can call it surrendering to your aching need. That’s what I do.) Cool World. This doesn’t seem real sometimes.

Her glow was almost ethereal. Almost supernatural. Almost an otherworldly manifestation of something… She became the moonlight, if only for a fragile instant. That’s what I like about it. Sometimes it is a quiet aura from a delicate soul. That’s where an aspect of the nature of beauty lies. What does it take to compose the legends of a tumultuous time? What does it take to preach the significance of soft moans and tender caresses? These are stories of their own. Legends in their own right. What if I told you that these two things were some of the gateways to splendor? Its circularity is mind boggling to say the least. I could try to say the most, but there aren’t enough words in the history of language to achieve that Herculean feat.

Life needs more piano solos. But fingers can talk in a plethora of exciting ways (all it takes is a journey into the depths of your creativity.). Romanticism is not dead; it has merely become passé. That is the fault of those who forgot what it is to experience passion. Their bodies have no life, have no connection to the Flow. There was a sparkle there. I know I saw it amidst the blue. What was it? Was it an explosion of the soul? It could’ve been bad lighting. Who knows?

It is a process. Like moving on. Memories are absorbed (made a part of you. They are a kind of patch for the soul. For everyone needs soul patches to cover the former resting places of those delicate stolen pieces.). This is called “moving on.” When memories become a permanent and unique trait about you. They are vessels of change in the smallest increments. This is why leaves fall. This is why the monkey falls. This is why cycles continue.

I spoke to Death. He was in the form of a patriarchal scorpion (caught in the fish nets of life). He told me he desires you. Desires for your universe to become his own. But fear not, the Hierophant carries the lamp of illumination that lights the pathways to the Sun. Follow him, things will be alright. Control is a four-letter word. An ordered manifestation of a universal concept of containment. This drives you mad, I can tell ( I see your restless spirit longing to be liberated. Aching for the wanton freedom of the Foolish air.
Fire is the key to this, the catalyst to the Star. Order and structure must fall. Emancipation must be achieved and maintained, if not; you will be lost to the all consuming forces of Dominion. These are the obstacles on your path: Reckless impulsivity. Fickleness. Addiction. Unfounded fear causing violent outbursts of panic-stricken anger.
These are the things to be aware of. These are the things to rise above. Lust is connected to Death is connected to The Fool is connected to the Devil (and the new Aeon begins.). The Great Jester is attracted to the Fallen Son. There is something inexplicable about him. Something to draw her curious and flighty nature to him (this is because puzzles are always intriguing until they are completed and the mysterious excitement is gone forever.) Ah, but the mischievous ram knows things. He understands the harbinger of change and welcomes it. It’s all connected…

Sometimes I feel homeless. That is part of it too, I suppose. It feels like a cold November night. The kind that is cold and windy and rainy and smells of broken hearts. In those times, I really want a home. Some place I can go to rest and be comfortable. We need a revolution of 3. But that’s hard for some to see (those of us whose number is “i” We wonder if we even exist. [Can imagination possibly be reality?]). This honky’s gone to heaven. Once upon a time, all roads led to Rome. Then the mother fucker burned to the ground. After that, all roads lead to a memory. I wonder where the roads out of memory lead. Where do those new paths of experience and excitement take those who decide to tread gingerly upon them? You were right about St. Christopher. He’s forgotten. Where do saints go when nobody believes in them anymore? Maybe they go live with the fairies and all the old gods…maybe. Or perhaps they become the new supplications of St. Jude who has no other choice but to champion their lost causes. I’d rather go live with the old gods, at least they knew how to have a good time.

I don’t know…everything. It all seems blurry every so often. I do know that I can’t stop. I can’t stop searching, can’t stop hoping, can’t stop living. What if there is more power in words than people think? What if words were what made the world what it is, made people who they are? Even though we are so much more than words, all we have are words to give us meaning. That is an intriguing thought in itself.
But how can I use words to describe it? The way it feels? How can you describe the sun consuming my nerves in golden pleasure? How can you describe the refreshing waves of soft sighs as they lap against the shores of ecstasy? How can you describe the soulful explosions in your eyes that are ignited with every smile of numbing joy that plays across your lips like a brilliant sonata? I can’t. I try, but I can’t. This is me with my head in my hands weeping tears of inadequacy and frustration. This is me wishing I were a god (because maybe, just maybe, then I’d finally be worthy.). This is me not understanding what the hell I am trying to say. This is me fading like a white fog. This is me becoming perpetual light trapped in November clouds. This is me when I’m the color fluorescent violet greenblueredpurpleburntsiennamotherofpearl.

Thank you for early morning visits. They are perfect little dreams of surreal reality that make the day beam with valiant confidence. There are smiles sometimes…I think they are supposed to be a secret. But when the eyes smile too, they tell everything. It’s not their fault, their joy is innocence. That’s where we find truth (inside those tiny vertigos of light). I apologize. I may not have the hang of this yet. I guess what I’m trying to say is————-

I can’t even remember my dreams anymore. They have been stolen from me. So please lie to me. Just like the newspapers told us to. Lie to me. Tell me they are all good dreams. Tell me there is no fear or pain or tears. Just joy and happiness and good times and perfect ambience lighting. That’s what I need. That’s what I crave. I don’t want to forget. This is going nowhere. I’m getting too old for this shit. My heart is very weary. I need to find some kind of peace. What am I trying to say? I can’t even care anymore. How fucking sad is that? How fucking sad is this? we are all broken hearts and tortured souls and emotional roller coasters. We are not ok. You are not OK. Nobody is fucking OK. Wake up and admit it, for fuck’s sake. I’m tired of weeping for you. I’m tired of weeping. I’m feeling so hopeless right now. I’m feeling like love and romance are meant to be played out by other players (I should probably stick to the fleeting minor characters from now on. Just to be safe, you know. Boundaries and all). I’m feeling like all instances of these memories in my life are a façade. What lies underneath the surface is nothing more than foolish hope. Imaginary emotions applied to realistic situations at an attempt for an interpretation with meaning and validity.

But the games never stop. They just keep on playing themselves out. Different innings or quarters or halves or however you want to divide your twisted engagements. I don’t want to be full of fear and phobia and anxiety about life and things anymore. I want to let it all go. Become somebody new altogether. Now, if I could only remember my name………………………………………..

This is an anthem for lonely mules everywhere. Would it matter if I started dating this? Does the fact mean anything? Does it make a difference? Does it matter that the Tree of Life has all of its secrets in divine strings of numerical words? So I fall again, the phantom planet tells me so. The light in the kitchen reminds me of a horror movie. That sick flickering before it sputters to life bathing the linoleum in florescent disease. Right after that moment, a dead body is usually discovered…or worse. I hope that never happens. Why don’t you meet me at that place we used to go? That place where we had those conversations that seemed to change lives. Fancies tickled with feather dusters. Cupid in a French maid’s costume. It seemed classy like that (to me, I think because I wanted something elegant. Like an old movie with a good story). Maybe I delivered the message to the wrong agent. Did you ever think of that? Out dated help controls where Buddha goes to laugh and play amongst his fields of sunlight. These mysteries are now explained. No books, just mirrors to other realms. Almost Alice, but without the growth spurts. If only tickets to Wonderland could be found wrapped around chocolate bars. It would almost be worth it. I really should be enjoying myself. I mean, it is the Apocalypse after all. The end all of all end alls. This is humanity signing off. At least we tried (well, some of us.).

Advertisements

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 February 17, 2012, in Author, Fiction, Philosophy, Religion and Spirituality, writing and tagged , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. 7 Comments.

  1. I LOVE your observation:

    “Memories are absorbed (made a part of you. They are a kind of patch for the soul. For everyone needs soul patches to cover the former resting places of those delicate stolen pieces).”

  2. “Sometimes it is a quiet aura from a delicate soul. That’s where an aspect of the nature of beauty lies.”

    I love the way this is written. =)

  3. I love this post, read it twice already. Don’t really need to mention here though but yes I could actually relate, that’s why!

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: