Cage of Souls Revisited

Well, I’ve apparently run out of steam, after only a few days, mind you, on telling you my story. It’s not that I couldn’t face the facts of my reality, it’s just that amidst the rape and intrigue, I’ve realized that my life is just not that interesting to me. It’s just “life.” So, the writer’s block continued. But if I am to polish these writing skills, I knew I had to just sit down and write. Although I wasn’t sure what there was to say, until last night.

Last night, around 11pm, in the twilight of my sleep, a bit of a poetic thought occurred to me and I realized that there was a spark, an ember of thought.


In that moment, I decided to rework, with the goal of mastery, the novel I wrote many years ago called, “Cage of Souls.” To further my inspiration, I woke this morning not only to the sound of my roommate (who is also my soon to be ex-husband) showering and banging around on the floor above, the owl announced his seasonal arrival to my rooftop with her distinctive “who who,” which trickled down the chimney and whispered its echo into my room. I had given the owl meaning long ago, and I knew it was time, I had to write. So, I’m going to tear this book to pieces starting now. Here we go…

Cage of Souls

Preface

The fabric of time is as thin as an aged parchment, as fragile and delicate as the wings of a butterfly in its final hours. It melts away in the rushing waters, smolders with the rise and fall of the sun and turns to ash as the seasons stake their claim to each generation. But somewhere in the fibers of the fabric of time are the imprints of significance, no matter how big or small, that people, places and things leave behind. Stamped, embroidered and branded into history, each moment doomed to be repeated. The place where these moments repeat is sacred, it is the place where time remembers and the ghosts linger.

Sacred ground blankets this earth. It is hallowed ground, consecrated in the blood of thousands of souls. Among those are the souls left to wander, tortured by lives that were stolen too soon, or perhaps there are dues their soul has yet to pay. Unknowingly, they are now doomed to repeat their steps until the end of time, or until someone comes along to save them. The tragic truth is that no one is coming to save them; their souls are woven into time’s delicate, yet unravelable, fabric. Each step they repeat tangles them tighter and they become locked away for eternity. I suppose it is fortunate for them that they are none-the-wiser. But sometimes, for reasons I have yet to truly understand, a modern time will cross paths with these trapped souls and a unique individual will catch a glimpse of a world that no longer exists. When that happens, modern people wrack their brains for an explanation. They eventually try to dismiss their encounters as an overactive imagination or perhaps a random event that happens in the brain. As time marches on, only a handful of ghost stories are fortunate enough to be lumped in with stories told around a campfire.

I can understand the need to make sense of these events that lack any logical explanation or scientific validation, but sometimes there truly are no logical answers. Science has yet to explain everything, which is why science, like medicine, is a “practice.”

***

Among the places lost to time is a small desert town, its archaeology preserved by the arid climate and its sinful greed, lust, wrath, and pride preserved by the timeless pain of sudden, and swift, defeat. The tales of Wild West stories known the world over, and among the entertaining tales of ghostly happenings that occur on a regular basis in Tombstone, Arizona, there is a lesser known story that is worth telling. It is a ghost story that only the most avid ghost adventurers know, but truth be told, they only know a small fraction of it.

Throughout the years, it has been said that there is a woman in white who has been seen descending the basement staircase of the notorious Bird Cage Theater. Initially, I suspected that this lady fell victim to those Deadly Sins which had claimed so many. Whatever the reason, though, all we truly knew was that she has been repeating her steps, getting more tangled in the fabric of time, as she descended the backstage staircase of The Birdcage Theater every moment, day and night, presumably, since the doors closed in 1892.

The fragments of her story vanish along with her spirit, right before your very eyes. But her end is where my story begins. You see I know why she wanders and I know who she needed to set her free. It is her curse which runs in my veins. She has been waiting for me…and I, unknowingly, had been waiting for her.

The Adulteress


Continuing to write fiction…one day at a time. 

If I were a different type of person, I could likely find a reason for such treason. I could blame my parents for being too strict, perhaps, in some cosmic sense, I’m to pay for the sins of my father…and maybe even the sins of my mother. But really, the decision to become an adulteress is not a conscious one. It is a vulnerable one. Men and women alike, there are few, if any, who move through affairs with malicious intent. Unlike those devilish “one-night stands,” affairs are a balm to soothe an aching heart, they fill those tiny voids in your heart that you never realized existed. They are an awakening, a realization, in a way. They force you to see your reflection with foreign eyes, the face is familiar, but the thoughts are entirely new. Nothing is sacred anymore, your beliefs, your morals, not gone, only changed. You find yourself asking, “What do you truly hold dear?” Then, you struggle even more, trying to reconcile the person you’ve become…or perhaps always were. 

Then, of course, you get found out. Perhaps through admission, or, more often, you get caught. Either way, the villagers will happily light the pyre beneath your feet, burning you for not adhering to their moral code. Yet as your soul drifts to some new dimension, you discover that the morality preached is seldom righteous. The villagers have their own dirty little secrets, their lives are a lie, and you have become their sacrifice to absolve their own sins. 

It was never a life goal to view relationships as disposable. I soon found myself asking, “When did loyalty become possession?” I was not in love anymore, my marriage had become a contract, my life one of obligation and possession. My shoulders had become weak from carrying so many burdens, sustaining verbal abuse, and floundering through countless failures. It is probably a bit easier to understand that my dalliance was inevitable. A hand was extended, offering to lift my burdens, a heart was offered to fill those spaces that had been recklessly abandoned. I’m sure, as human as you are, you might possibly offer some understanding. 

New Fiction

I’ve decided to start writing again…I don’t really understand why I ever stop. I suppose it’s because it drains me to think about topics and, then weave words that desire to be read. But here I go…again. 

“I am an adulteress.” I repeated this to myself, as I searched the reflection in the mirror for any sign that the woman I once was still existed. In just two short years, the youfulness had dwindled from my eyes, and began to show as a new dullness in both my skin and eyes reflected back to me. Apparently, all of the trials and tribulations I had endured in my first forty years didn’t take nearly the toll that just two years spent in the beautiful turmoil of passion provided. 

I suppose there is still a level of naïveté that demonstrates itself, even at the age of thirty-eight. Looking back, I could equate myself to a child, desperately seeking the comfort, the safe  embrace, only a parent could provide. At the time, I was as lost as a piece of driftwood, carried across the miles of open ocean, with no particular destination. All I wanted was a safe place to rest my weary heart. It was quite pathetic, in retrospect. But somehow, I convinced myself that nothing mattered, no sin too great, for the warm sanctuary of an equally aching heart would heal all indiscretions. 

Well, I Just Figured Out the Meaning of Life…I Think

I had a thought…that makes sense one moment, and seems overstated at others…then I wonder what the hell I’m even talking about. That process should be pretty obvious as you read on. 

What if…

The secret to life – happiness, sadness, wealth, poverty, love, hate, etc., could be found in a simple pattern? 

And what if…

Each individual had their own pattern, yet there was another, larger pattern that each individual pattern fit into? Could we find a mathematical code in our brains that is our pattern…and then crack the code??

After all…

All patterns are geometry, and humans are geometric, as are all living things.

Therefore…

What if the secret to life is cracking your unique geometric code?

In these moments…

I regret not paying closer attention in Ms. Ponchetti’s Sophomore Geometry class. 

A Walk Through Nothing


As I walked through the blank spaces in my mind, this thought occurred to me, offering some semblance of relief. I can’t say that I was fretting about my blank mind, I suppose I was just searching for…well…something, anything, that made sense, or perhaps was an epiphany. It seemed that as I grasped for each thread of thought, it simply unraveled. That’s when I realized – there were thoughts, but nothing with a solid foundation. Yet this moment wasn’t meant for concrete. It was meant for calm. There was nothing to discover or solve, it was simply time to be…so that I may have the fortune to create a sturdy stitch with the next thread of thought that enters my mind. 

A Sober Thought


In these moments I have found a greater appreciation for my solitary condition. These moments have forced me to stop running from my mind and give up the trappings of materialism. Had I never known love, I would not have found a true appreciation for the most simple weed and the vast abilities of the mind. Through love, lies the desire to know something greater, which can only be “the self.” It is not a matter of rejecting loneliness, it is simply realizing that my life has been one of distraction and indulgence, neglect. 

It is the plight of many to say that everything in our world has been discovered, mastered, and neatly packaged – but this is simply the lot of the lazy mind, which has been nurtured by a society with little regard for the spirit of beautiful wonderment. 

To seek is the greatest gift we can give ourselves.