A Universal Shift: Short Fragment

An old fragment, like a glimpse into another world I never got to explore. Enjoy!!

Whispered mumbling…almost ominous.

Followed by the clank of metal on metal.

The dreamscape pulls out to reveal two shadowed figures in cloaks. They are dimly lit by an eerie orange glow from behind. The impression of cobblestone under my feet becomes a reality. I don’t know how I manage to take all this down, my hands are shaking so bad. I’m not sure who they are—these cloaked figures. I’m not sure what they are doing, but the dread, the terror begins to sink its claws into my skull. And look, now I’m staring at black on white again. Words just tumbling onto this nonexistent paper like so many delicate drops of blood falling from an oblique hand—drip…drip…drip–with a methodical pitter-patter onto bone white parchment. Equally as nonexistent, but a lot more real than these invisible binary codes that follow my every sentence.
There is a dark side to this. This violent dance of self important monkeys, this perpetual staccato razor blade rhythm, this coveted but mistrusted gift. I am not the evil that has come to destroy you, but the darkness that has come to liberate you.

This is the manifesto that is pounded like a desperate symphony onto the screaming keys of an ancient typewriter. In the background is a large room fashioned from roughly cut stones, like something in a castle. A roaring fire lights the room as it warms. Medieval almost. And then the fingers once again begin their bleak concerto.

I am staring off to my left. There is nothing. Just…nothing. I feel that at any moment my whole world could just topple over into this infinite space. Sometimes I feel the tremors of chaos rumbling beneath my flimsy plane of reality. They warn me, they are the harbingers of truth that reassure me that when it is all over, the world will be a much better place. A much purer one. But that small reassurance still won’t stop the nightmares.
I am the child of a lost generation. A generation discarded and scorned because we are the final prophets of a dying race. The last hope and the last great failure. We don’t need anyone’s prayers. We are the product of answered prayers. This is God’s plea to us all. His final proclamation before the universe corrects itself. We are fighters, we are healers we are the purest scapegoats a tainted world has to offer for sacrifice. This makes us cry. This makes us bleed. This makes us willing to ensure our martyrdom is for a reason…a higher purpose. We will not heed the ignorant demands of those who would discard us silently, stealthy and with dark and selfish intention. You want details. You want a story, I can tell. You want something you can wrap your brain around. Something to relate to. Well, shining inside the depths of every single word is a story. How can I tell them all? They really tell themselves.

Honestly, I think the gentlemen is simply rambling at this point. I think he is masking something. The truth behind the veil.

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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 16, 2013, in Author, Fiction, Philosophy, Religion and Spirituality, Spirituality, writing and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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