Such a wrestle. Such a fight. Such a quandary. I’m here, given time, opportunity, equipment, and mental energy, and yet I find myself tossing and turning within, juggling ideas, and furrowing my brow in an attempt to make it all make sense. I have in my hands options–the number of which seems to grow by the day–and yet her I sit, unsure. I can tackle any of these; some I have already tackled, and some remain as a “twinkling” in the center of my mind, the depth of my heart, the secret center of my soul.
And life returns to reality for only just a moment…. a few perhaps, to remind me of other options, it seems, to challenge me to start at the beginning and to do just that: start.
So I set my pen to action. I open a fresh document and begin the research
needed to tackle this brewing issue in my mind. The details are fresh, the conflict so deep, the possibilities endless. However, despite the overload in which I find this unexercised muscle of my mind, I press on, a little at a time, to do the unthinkable, to tell the whole story and to perhaps, discover the truth.
Scared is an appropriate word as I consider the long-term affects of such a piece. Gone are days of reverence and homage. Gone.
When I consider the long-term affects, when I begin to assess the end result of what I am about to begin, my heart quickens. Perhaps it would be better if this story were not written. Maybe this is one time, the one time in history, when the story would better be not shared. However, as I have oft learned, the truth told, no matter how hard at first to accept, is better than a false ideology coddled by another’s inaptitude to make clear of that which I was unaware.
It is the hidden secret, of which no one speaks. It is the historical entries which no one seeks to read. It is the painful truth, unrecognized, by accident or choice I do not know, but which has changed my whole opinion. A story, so commonly known and taken at face value, now destroyed with a few hour’s research, now dashed to the ground with the revelation of truth. Many have known, perhaps even been willing to share, but it is the first I’ve come to understand. My heart feels that it must share this uncomfortable news.
But to what end? With what purpose? To ruin one man’s view of another with no hope and no end gain? Therein lies my challenge. Therein lies the truth which I must find within myself in order to produce something–anything–positive and good as a result of this unearthed mystery.
I knew it had been there. My mind had questioned for too long. It was only curiosity with which to build my own story that I began to search for holes, for clues, for possibilities that no one save myself had dared consider. I had not expected to find anything save that, an absence of anything concrete with which to weave my own story, the vacuum of which I would fill with the pleasures and fancies of my own mind.
However, what I have discovered has more than unearthed a vast silence about which I can dare to speak. These minute attempts at research have revealed a story of greater depth and scandal than most would dare to conceive. The tale woven deep within the well-known and oft-loved passion of one writer has within its grasp the power to create upheaval, to cause sorrow, to challenge faith.
Dare I record its story for fear of its power?
Making My Boast 