The Dispelled Girl: Prelude

And in case you are wondering...my book I hope to have completed by the end of the summer. As I work out the kinks of publication, agents, etc. I thought I would give you a teaser.

This is the opening, or prelude if you will, to chapter 1. Enjoy!

~chandra

I have always been a late night writer. Not really sure exactly why. The only explanation that I can give is that some of my deepest and darkest moments- moments when I needed him most- came when the sun parted from the world and said hello to the magical moon. And somewhere in those moments when the rest of humanity slept, I was busy scribbling, writing and etching out the feelings and longings of my heart. And when sleep came, when sleep came- I found comfort knowing that no one else knew what was said or mentioned on those journals that were stashed in the untold places. And then I slept…comforted at last that he heard me and comforted at last that the cruel hearts of humanity that would awake in the morning would not touch me- could not touch me- for I slept.




Writing for me has always been an outlet. The only form of communication that was safe. The only way to know that what I expressed, what I felt, and what I observed would not be met with coup de tete by the powers that be. It was the only form of expression that was acceptable and as primitive as it may have appeared, it was the only thing that I was allowed to do. It was quiet.



The world could not hear me…the dictators could not hear my revolutionary cries…even my starchy blanc and ashen gris cat could not hear the screams, the cries, the pleadings, the longings, the passions of my unquenchable heart. Indeed a revolution was taking place, a rebellion was occurring but as long as it could not be heard I could not be oppressed. Yet a time would come and I knew this all too well that these pleadings and groanings and cries would be made known. The time for that moment was as yet to be defined for me; it was neither the driving force behind my calloused index nor the driving force behind the usage of an ink pen within a week’s time. It was a passionate desire to be heard and understood by one who knew me better then I knew myself. One who never suggested my cries were too loud for sensitive ears or too insane for compassion…or change.



Of course I had yet to understand all of the many implications that this potent gift would mean for me. I had yet decades to realize it. But…there it was. Available, accessible, and apparently thought to acquiesce. Little minds rarely understand greatness, though it projects itself on them daily. Little hearts are rarely moved by passion, and little souls even less by the demonstration of need.



And yet…sometimes it takes living a life of sheer determination- a will to survive- to turn the bud into blossom, the pupae into the honeybee, the embryo into babe, the soldier into hero. A will not just to exist but a will to achieve, a will to believe that beauty and greatness are destined for you. The mysterious honeybee, the perfumey rose, the swaddled babe, the hero are meant to be pondered, wondered over, reflected on. Their contributions to humanity remain the same: things that we once were, we do not have to remain to stay, and that which has not yet become should never give way to mediocrity. All of humanity is destined for greatness and perhaps more importantly all of humanity has a longing of the soul…for importance.



Importance to matter. The child whose cries are not heard, the abused, the beaten, the downtrodden, the neglected, the violated, the wounded, the bruised, the battered. We have not felt important enough to matter. We struggle, we cry, we would do most practically anything to find the one person on this old creaking world who cared, who let us know that we are important and that what we have to say is important and is not discounted.



The cry of the human heart and I was no exception.



And as I wrote in the dim light of the pink accent lamp of my room nightly- with pillows wedged under the crack in the door to disguise the light shining from beneath- the tears often smudging the ink of the pen, I wrote feverishly of my need to matter…to someone because in the home in which I lived I did not.