Epistles of Lucius: The Book of Illogical Logic

I, Lucius, sit where I stand at the edge of an endless path before me. Look at what you cannot see. You will notice nothing and will be exalted for it. What is logic if naught but a lack thereof? He Who Is Not A Pronoun laughs at notions of logic. For instance, what is breathing, if not illogical? Why breathe? Obviously, we breathe to sustain life. But why? Why live? Life is a rollercoaster of suffering and joy, the former being stronger and more prevalent than the latter. So we breathe to prolong and sustain personal suffering. Where is the logic in that? We breathe in order to produce speech. What’s the point in speaking? Ha! You poor slobbering fool. There is more miscommunication than communication flowing through this river of shit called “human existence.”

Thus, what good has speech done? I’ll tell you. It’s done a world of good if your goal is to piss people off and start conflict. It’s done fantastically as a means of manipulation with soft spoken words. Wooing innocent young lasses to their bed-graves.

When looked at logically, illogical logic is logical.

Sweetness, beer, liquor, love and Gaia’s gifts are the only purely illogic logic in this vast playground called, “the universe.” But be wary, you must play nice because the bully is the biggest of us all. That fat cat, that lazy bastard that destroys all his wonderful toys—we call him GOD! Or Zeus, or Buddha, or Allah, or Jehova, or Krishna or Goddess. I call him He Who Is Not A Pronoun. He will save you from nothing. Amazing doctrine to espouse, impossible to manifest. Shh! Speak not of noodles on the halfshell. These things are far too deadly for the likes of mortal men. They creep upon you and turn you into unsavory things like midgets or clams or the woman who most resembles your father yet speaks in tongues.

What is she thinking? This odd foreign woman with an annoying accent and a grating voice is a conundrum indeed. Staring, comrades, is all she does…… Trying to bore into your eyes and soul with the tenacity of a gopher on speed. The she shifts her eyes slowly to the next person. Often times she gazes into open space. Looking for things only she can see. Are they the demons in her head? Or pinstriped chickens from outerspace? Then a sly and evil smile cracks her face, it reminds me of the Grinch. See? There she goes again! AHHHH!!! OUT! GET OUT OF MY HEAD, DEMON BITCH!!! Now she shakes her head, eyes never moving from me. Perhaps, one can hope against hope, she talked her mental imps out of raping and killing me in a most disagreeable fashion. One can hope…

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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 August 10, 2012, in Author, Fiction, Philosophy, Religion and Spirituality, writing and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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