"My real self wanders elsewhere, far away, wanders on and on invisibly and has nothing to do with my life."

- Hermann Hesse

"You have to defeat reality with that imagination of yours. I say 'of yours' because everyone is capable of having one. We have to create our own (stories) that make this life more bearable when it becomes detrimental. That is what writing stories and reading them is all about. We sail on the wings of either our own words or others."

- Christopher Poindexter (parentheses mine)

I am a paradox. For years, my life has consisted of order and protocol; every decision and emotion neatly compartmentalized. Yet, within this ordered existence, the chaos in my inmost self has struggled to break free and be acknowledged. I have realized the prismatic nature of my soul and I am slowly coming to terms with the fractures that mark every facet. Only once did I ever risk revealing my true passionate nature. Revealed to the person I trusted and adored above any other; for my verity, I was rewarded with a gaping bite mark to my heart. Though the wound has long closed, the scar still itches. In spite of this - or perhaps, because of it - I have remained, at my core, a ragingly hopeless romantic with impractical idealism and a familiarity with darkness. It should be no great shock then, that I also have a penchant for epic love stories. Regardless of whether they originate from my imagination or another's, writing stories has been a means of reacquainting myself with the beautifully primitive nature that I have long imprisoned beneath a facade of discipline and logic. Since allowing myself to explore this "alter ego", I have made many lovely realizations, such as:

The nature that actualized these inclinations is also the intangible hand which shapes my imaginings and fantasies. The style of my writings tends toward the descriptive with a fragmented flair for the dramatic, so, let me be clear on this: I write what I write because it is the story that I want to read. They are my own details, twists, and interpretations. I have no grand illusions that my stories could ever be any great literary feats or appeal to anyone whose inclinations do not, at least, vaguely mirror my own. This is my mind's way of communicating with the messy ideals and emotions that I have hidden and ignored for too long. That being said, if any of my writing resonates with but one reader and stirs their heart even a fraction, then that is enough. I wish to offer, in advance, my sincere appreciation to anyone who takes of their valuable time to contribute any suggestions or constructive criticism for my writing. Slainte!

And so, in closing this overture into the madness in my mind, let me extend to you a simple invitation:

The world grows dark and light is precious.

Draw closer, dear reader, closer!

You must trust me, "A chuisle",

for I am telling you a story...

Persephone Rage