Letter Streams

Dear Kate,

Sun behind clouds like a warrior behind a shield. Taken from a land of
insecurity and put into a prison, maximum security. Outlook changes to
the extreme of wants. These molecules dance and instruct, wave to show
paths of desire which torment and frustrate obligations. Theirs is a
cloud which covers everything and it must be an answer to some kind of
prophetic notion of unease and unsure questioning.
Kate.
What does she mean? She means magic. Indescribable parallels of energy
and profound understanding. Never to be let go yet must never be
restrained for fear of reduction in growth. Such a beautiful night,
wind howling and darkness groping the seducible part of the soul. Draw
me in through your door into your field of dusk and empathy. Watch dusk
settle and watch the moon nod and rise, letting the sun swoop and sit
below, resting and forever breathing for the storage room will
relinquish sometime soon again. One thing needed is a consummation with
a Kate, a mysterious enigma of variety and substance of the mystique, a
celestial wanderer of paragraphs and sentences unjust, a want for
freedom from the mind of creation. Live as it scores the lungs of the
air god, through touch of energy and power of oil and combustion. Let
it ride at 560cc, and let it look at me. Let it cry. Let it feel. Let
it blow around the air. Let it stay. Let it be happy. Parade in
disguise and laugh at the success of deceit, too short or sorrowful to
recognise as importance. Bring the answer and bring the hope, caught
like a shoal of energetic release in the sea of amnesty. Wisdom of the
find will bring enlightenment of the karmic attitude, an ever diligent
and random chess game so sordid as to be played with a dice - a
horrific collaboration of physics and Fate. Give Fate physics and you
give yourself up, you are fighting a battle with an invisible enemy
whilst dumb to the noise of movement and the accuracy of control. Bring
me the answer and I will bring you the life, like the bee brings the
nectar to the most forlorn of the flowers. Happiness is a form of
sorrow, contentment that progression has ended. It is disguised and as
clever as a pigeon - a pious bird of good omen, scorned from
intellectual misunderstanding. A hand, fingers, lines, nails, white
marks and shaking, peach covered with glue and body tarmac, a glow of
completion and a sign for satisfaction. Accept and join, stay
comfortable and don't think. Thought is the one sin that can halt a
lifetime. Don't think just act, discover truth through existence in
purity, you are water you are trees, you help me drink you help me
breathe. Comprehension is false and should not be used as a word in a
sentence. It shouldn't need to be. They talk of chemistry, I talk of
energy. That is everything. Connections, reflections, parallels of
directions. A manifestation of greatness through a fog of stagnated
triumph, false and misguided, a body of forbidden treachery ordered to
the psyche and remembered as the one word to follow. Someone else says
it, so why is it true? Clamp my brain and order me. Show me the forks
in the road and guide me unto the correct highways of ignorant
acceptance. Cuddle and keep me, trace me and push me, hide away the
imbalance of difference that can so dearly hurt me. Throw me, tow me,
blink for me and close my eyes like curtains on the great stage of
constancy. Pull me away and deny me this miracle of natural harmony.
Sit me in the chair, lift me through the great boxers and show me the
figures I need to keep my life clock ticking. Tell me this IS life,
this IS the truth and tell me I can only survive through the
continuation of your teaching, the teaching of the higher hand.
Discussions of direction and use, forcibly acting the march towards
total application - surrender of foes, dispelling needs and forming our
own world. Give me what I want, give me it now. Why not? Don't I
deserve it? This is my world, you keep telling me. 'You' is not Kate in
recent descriptions, Kate is earlier but right now 'you' is something
else, something more physically powerful. No necessity to the mental,
why bother treading the track of unsure dirt when the allies have built
the smooth run of inevitability instead. Lemmings on methadone, cliffs
of reliance and falls into the unnoticed sin. Life is sin, school is
sin. Education, I mean. Run away but don't hide - you can always learn.
Hide from the fibres of the common energies, live with your own
energetic impulse - impulse is pure truth yet scorned because it
involves lack of thought and breaks rules. Yet thought is automatic
failure in living. Existence is pure and untouched like the grainy bowl
of a desert - a land where there is no rope around your waist, no poles
in the sand. God is not real but is the power in mass persuasion,
connect your reigns to this and you become the one, the electricity and
the value, the currency for victory. Right now I don't know this
currency - I know of it and I know it exists as a greater Apparition
which sits itself in the particles of everything we draw into our eyes
- yet I refuse to believe that the colours are pretty. I refuse to
understand that they are the colours that I should find pretty. How I
love this night. Cold and callous, the wind wraps around the Apparition
and throws it about like a sodden and lifeless carcass of a small
animal. For now it is gone - it has no effect - yet it will return by
morning. Watch the night of triumph, bask in its self-proclaimed power,
roaring with conquest because it has realised how to take over control.
It brings us magic, and for this I respect it. It is only cold because
we are told so, look closer and you will feel warmer. Winter is
laughter, a temporarily alternative ruler, a heralded barbarian who
will always slay the enemy. We feel it, and we resign to it. Instead we
must join its beautiful harshness, collect our new vision and correct
the previous tragedy. Nighttime outside a cottage. Winter, white fields
and hills surrounding the house. Trees, all leaning and crooked, lines
of dry stone walls clasped by crystal pale ice. Hear that howl too,
swirling outside as if in preparation. Wrong thinking, no preparation -
victory already. Inside this cottage. Beige walls, ceiling sleepers,
coal blowing fire. Two people look through a quartered glass window.
They feel safe, it is no coincidence. Lying together in the grasp of
collective warmth, their sleep will relax and instruct the bodies - who
must not ignore. Forbid the roots of thought. Happiness through the
compilation of metal and paper, identification through the size of the
collection. No, refusal. Hard, tough, no corresponding understanding.
That's the perpetual, spurious lifelong dream, so wake up. Do it soon,
do it now - the man on your shoulder will grow with every step you
take. But don't worry - he's awake. Understand these people, and live
for life and not just consequences. It is too comfortable to be too
conformist, a bed in the early morning when you don't want to get up.
Snap. Rise. Burn your bed. Find a new one and go to sleep there
instead. By then you are retrieved, and you can smile. Always happy, no
thoughts, no worries, nothing to live up to. End this.
I love you.