The Cliff and The Clef

 

Mr. Ebenezer, I have fallen to the same curse. I thought that the dystopian clerk(y)-dramatized society would at least leak by throwing the past off a cliff. Except for, it didn’t. Perhaps, it’s the wrong cliff, or maybe it’s not even one. Still, that doesn’t jump off my senses. Did I throw the past? Did I get over it? Who does? The ghosts of the upper world in a carol game are themselves stuck warning us about the world falling. You won’t learn–the yet-to-come amigo will tell. But I read your story, and your book is a good metaphor after all.

This is when serotonin hits. I didn’t throw the past, but instead, I jumped myself. But who’s talking anyway? That’s the shifting chapter where you read the first and last two chapters of a book. Still, we, humans, are always reading the book inversely. Beginning with the drug(y) happiness and ending with the least impressive similes.

Pause. Hush. Not a word. Jump. In the Dickensian era, we represent the three hopeless ghosts. The Cliff who wishes everybody jumps–Ghost of Christmas Past. The Clef, a drunk deaf writer who sets an entire opera in chaos–Ghost of Christmas Present. And a life model that pretends to control both The Cliff and The Clef, but it’s much like a man who goes back in time to tell Bret Easton that being a psycho is like composing poetry in a sunflower field–Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come.

Some wordy titanic messages. Nobody dies in that chapter. It’s a frame for those who are less reminded that the overly dramatic stories they compose are–by far–the least concerning to this world. That is when exactly they get trapped in their heads waiting for both; the sunset and the sinking of their dreams. This chapter seems devilish after all. It’s never been about jumping because nobody will, in the watch of the most welcoming; The Cliff and The Clef.