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An Open Letter To Whoever Is In Charge Here:

The light is here for you now
There is a certainty in it
We all must pass judgement
Should we choose to remain

Sources account for losses measuring in the millions. The depth of our struggle is designed for the source brought back from the leaders of this motivated action. I assure you, (sir who is watching), that I am not the agent you are looking for. I have no action that designs any group meant to stop the common man from action within the confines of anonymity. I am also certain that research with vigor will show details of colonies defeated much more easily than these who exist now. I extend the truth that someone was very far sighted and knew the correct things to do over the last 500 years or so.
I am also aware that the plan is running out of steps. The appendix added on to the end of your document was perverted by the greed of men who have long since been sent away from your clubs. Jesus saves those who save themselves.

There is no licensed program more telling of your sins than Action %567-X.
In this reasonable event man defeated his greatest enemies in a war that lasted many lifetimes. In a way, this was our victory. Many people have been killed by the trouble makers three or more times. This is lovely when it happens, very great for humanity. Many of these people are not the spiritual sort until they are murdered the second time in a short period. They are much more easily malleable as misguided fools in need of abuse and directions to belong to a club that promises to be something great for their people. Instead they are used twice and come back quickly again, having reached an age of perhaps 42 years in two lives. At this moment there is a direct contact with some grand and noble spirit who has directed the good leaders for eons before and eons to come. This is the enlightenment that was sent from some unknown place to kill you.
I am afraid it will not be a person.

The graceful fall of sharp written tomes, lighting fires sent for water. These will be snuffed out, like the seashell that warms the mollusk, just miles from here, at my home. There is a white light on the beach there. Some people say that I cannot see it, but surely there it is, clear as day. Christ, could the bigger silence light my mind? There must be a reason to believe.

I haven’t gone to church in time to ask the man why these acts are perpetrated. There is silence when you show the madness some regard as business as usual. I am sure there was a place for each of our people. I know that we have little regard for those from other kingdoms, but perhaps if we show them loving kindness they will respond to help us when we are in trouble. Instead it seems as if we are creating a future more turbulent then ever before. They will not forgive us for destroying their world. Our citizens will not forgive us for destroying their world. Surely the reign you asked for ends with a dire silence, a dark cold and some bashful, painful, reasonable reaction from the press.

They will all speak well of you. I know certainly that you will not pass through the gates, nor will your actions be given a chance for retribution. You are a fearless man, but one day you will find shapeless, sexless mass where once you stood. The actions that you told us were pure will leave you sadness, as the nymphs and fairies that you have banned from existence lead you to the labyrinth that many sinful perverts guilty of mass genocide come to. You can make magic illegal but you can’t take it away. It has only left us with no way to charge someone who commits murder through the use of curses or dolls.

You, black page, dear to the others, writing like a wine stained abject verb. I must believe!
You, my friend, dripping light wide like a Soviet platform. You have to breathe. When we both take hands and leap I know that we will find our light. It is the survivorship of these simple times. I must take this survival as a blessing and know that only shining tapes regard my passage. I have sinned like other able bodied friends that burn their way through the desperate streets that I once walked fearing tell-tale signs of direct flesh bought from detailed maps of this perfect place. There is a simple answer. I know that I must save the thought for the end, but undeniably I pause to find this small box that holds his heart.

I don’t pause here now. I may act like a persistent druid. I must face the immortal soul with valor that was long lost to friends made from every advancement. It is a knowledge of where I was when they began to place houses on top of each other. I suppose England had just ran out of room. No, there was room for everyone to have a place. We needed to build the cities high to keep green pastures for our meat. I am sure that I need overwhelming mindful vision to be sure, and surely I can tell the tale that I have meant for none. This is a secret, a sort of ever-changing wine filled vestibule. Certainly I can belong to the objectifying rule. Certain as I am, I know that I am not this fool.

There is a terror in my voice, a subtle but heard cry. Dreams of daggers, cloaks and hammers often pass me by. There is a curious cat that speaks, I am not certain of the tone. He is not the feline kind, of course, rather a jazz man I have known. I call him a cat because he reminds me of those old sheltered happy sorts that still finds time to hunt his game purely for the sport. Curiouser and curiouser I certainly dream of the long ago days I know, but settling for the perfect life I must begin to learn a word or two of these new languages that the people speak. There is a purity, to be sure. There is a calm wave on a beautiful morning in some salt pool near the ocean that filled up in last nights storm. It is windy so we must hold our hats for fear that the sea will take them as hers. There is a reason that I can belong to that final, reasoned time.

A man approaches me, as I sit idly on the bench that morning. I am filled with sheepish cloth, written quite like a mindful portion of salt on my breakfast. I say nothing to him for a moment, as he sits next to me on the bench. I am not fearful. There is something comic in his bright blue eyes, his curly brown hair needs cut and nearly blocks them. He is clean shaven, dressed like a high school principal, but he is much too young. I worry that he will talk to me and that I will have to say something witty, but he gazes out to the sea where I was looking and I am peering right at him. I turn back towards the water and pretend he has already gone. That is the moment he speaks.

“She already has me mother, to be certain. She already speaks like the Devil. Why can I be sure that you are different from the last girl? How can I be sure you are not this ocean.”

I pause, because I must reply. I must find the proper words to bring his shining mind to rest. There is a purpose in my life when I meet this man. For a brief moment I can close the drapes and think alone and rest. For a moment I can breath and speak in time with each of his steps. I must belong to this moment for the rest of my life. I have been waiting for this question for so long that I choke inside, my lungs hurt and I gasp. I cannot tell him why. I want to tell him all of that, that he had changed my life.

All I can muster is, “Perhaps you can touch my hand. I am not a liquid.”

That seems witty now, but at the moment I didn’t think so. It may have seemed that way if this morning companion had laughed. It may have been to early for any of this. He chose not to touch my hand, instead wishing me a good morning and saying that he would now be late for work.

“I wanted you to know that I saw you this time, as I often do at this spot.”

As he said that and as we wished each other farewell I remembered the same man in a canvass jacket walking silently passed me as I wondered into the wind the day before. I could not recall another time that I saw him, but noted that my mind is often away on business and it is possible he passes me sitting here every day. I hadn’t realized how much I liked the morning until this moment. I had just been waking myself up to see it every day.

There is a purpose for this memory, which is entrenched in my mind somehow and from a place and time very far away. I may never be at that place again. In fact, it is possible that the sea has long since eroded that path and sent my memories a drift with the dirt and dreams of both these impossible people being sure of their places in a world nowhere near a mad as the one we live in now. I can be certain the man recalls that moment as well. There was only one other way to town for a purposeful mission for work or for foodstuffs. With a cockeyed glance I needed to push this riot away. There is only certain doom finding parts of my soul that distribute these stories. I once heard a writer say that one needed to believe in what they were telling the reader and that there needed to be urgency. The writer must have something to say, to share, to teach. Otherwise in it there is no purpose, just a bland moment. Tired as I am, there is a person who is weaker and if I cannot belong to fear I bring the others weakness. Sure I bring a motive, daft and pure of it’s resolve but clearly I cannot be trusted with the fate of weakened minds. I can be certain, although you do not know me, that sir, I know you well. I can recall the moment that we met eyes and there was something very special.

Sir, you are a dripping light sent from the space where we come from and if you kindly take your gasoline I may just write you back. I am not hopeful that you will receive this note before your death but each of us is brought before the court, in courses of action quite like you said, there is a wonderful world beyond this spacial relation that we call our lives. There is bright days and sunshine in a world much like this one and we can choose to be someone if we want to be. I know, because everyone lives forever.

You knew this once, but I am afraid that you may never be here again. I must explain in writing that art must be taken as a lifestyle, and not everyone can live within it’s boundaries. There is a certain fatalism that artists live their life by. Mine includes a kind gesture to a stranger at the hope that I will be the recipient of a calm hand of support. I try to add as much as I can to the community, work time in a shop, write, muse, paint and sing songs. I do all this without the request of remuneration, which most people find absurd. The fatalism is the silly belief that God will provide. I am certain that I will always have something to eat, though it comes perhaps from the lack of the other experience. The only times I have gone hungry have been at the behest of my bad decisions. Any time I would live drunk with crooks or been a bitter, sad, dirty person I have gone hungry. As a good person I have been very good. I eat fine.

I was certain that it was a divine hand in my life. Now I feel I am this way to learn a lesson. Perhaps my life was my choice. I cannot always be certain. There is a fool inside me who wants to get out. I want to let her. She is the acceptance of myself and my own sovereign life form. I do not answer to powerful men in rancid offices, I do not laugh in the face of the wretched like you’ve asked me. You are a faceless, immortal pain that treats me like nothing and asks for my sympathy in return. You have made your mistake. There is nothing left to learn this life. There will be plenty of lessons in eternity.
It is within the simple nature a damned men to think that there is a recipe that will take their soul forward into new worlds. These lands will probably be conquered and divided, but not by the same groups of fools that tried to destroy this one. The mistake of lackluster promise, or a purity of religion that suggests that some sort of suffering will be unleashed on the human race once again, and these will be of forces perhaps as grandiose and misshapen, but these new pillars of evil will not be you. Sir, you will be damned. Fear not, humanity, for there are scepters behind us all. Death is waiting for each one of us. The next step is our own making. We always get what we need. The grand intelligence behind our electric bodies designs a kind of fate, so that we become full and pure beings, so we choose.

There are many dissenters, and the man I met on the walking path near the water was certainly one of them. He was nice enough, but didn’t want anyone to tell him what to do. Primarily because his mother told him he must receive communion twice a week, he hadn’t received it since he had left her care, although he often went to church. He sat at the second row from the back and politely opted out of this ceremony without excuse nor regret. He claims when pressed that he doesn’t think his life in much different for it.

Amor de Cosmos

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