hypnotized understanding of words

view from my desk, dark at 4:00pm

i have been writing for the passt 5 hours today to just unearth some thoughts that's been waiting to be put into words.  i can never get enough of thinking about that process.  that process of pondering and philosophizing and finally crystallizing it into a structured form through prose or any other kind of text.  i'd like to think i've broken through a half decade's writer's block and there is this calling forth coming from the voice of a person that's waiting to be formed.  

soleil she calls herself.  where did she come from?  from a neglected name.  a finer variation of soledad.  the name of a grandaunt who's name has been bequeathed to me.  laville an inversion of my mother's maiden name villa.  the family of whom i associate all my eccentricities to.  

why does the psyche come up with these things?  is this part of a writer's journey?  i've often read of writers having to "befriend" their characters who are actually fragmented pieces of themselves scattered in the many different memories of their lifetime.  

i start with the most obvious thought plaguing my mind which is the inability to be in touch with my real emotions, my perspectives, my freedom of speech which i had possessed in the past.  imprisoned by some kind of self-containment because of so many different things that i had to adhere, obey, accept, live with.  is this then a act of rebellion?  

no.

it's an act of discovering  peace.  that peace you find which understands that even if things do not make sense all these experiences are part of your life and make you whole.  a peace that embraces you so strong that you do not flinch when you see the grotesque deformation of your skin because the scars in your spirit were too hot like coal.   i write this in the middle of a rainy sunday succumbing to the lull of the raindrops falling down the window.  it's hypnotic.   and i hope i don't stop.

the beginning

for the longest time i've been trying to get myself to admit that i am a writer.  and the longing to write is never going to end until i sit myself down on my desk and find these words that's compelling to be written. here i am trying to start fragments of a memoir.  recalling images.  conversations.  small talk.  deep introspection.  from my life that has been "too fragmented" to weave in words.  

this morning, i've found the courage to discover a writing voice that has always pushed me beyond reason. it's a voice that i've ignored because i cannot name it.  but it's a voice that's been wanting to speak in a different name.  and hence, it calls itself soleil laville.

it revealed itself to me this morning after idly checking my mail and restlessly trying to find more meaning in my Facebook newsfeed but to no avail.  it's been spammed with chatter that does not bring me peace.  so the unearthing of this character that has seen my life through different eyes has brought me to face my fears and dig into the words from a mouth that's been shut for too long.  i am waiting  to be told what to do.  this soleil who comes after me with great force and who seems to know every crack and crevice in my soul.

so i watch as she comes to write the words of a story i've long refused to read for fear it complicated and doomed to be misunderstood.  but she insists.  and i can only surrender for that's what writers do.