'The Battle of the Soul' was written as a testament to the strength of the spirit. Often the spirit is deeply buried and does not reveal itself until challenged in a "do or die" situation.
Battle of the Soul
R-a-g-e. Bottled up deep inside for so long began to erupt.
Unstoppable, unbridled, with a life force of its own churning and twisting and turning: struggling to break out of its self-imposed prison. Language, thoughts, emotions and memories scrambled together like so many expired eggs tumbling out of a cardboard carton onto a cold, hard floor.
Injuries inflicted on her internal spirit merged together on the highway of life at warp speed, resulting in a horrifying crash. Body parts, blood, tissue, personal effects flinging in every direction, splattered over every surface: Explicit details of the soul’s carnage.
Her tormentor was good – really good. He was smooth and sympathetic, clucking and tsk-tsking at all the right times. Big and strong he enveloped her with golden haired arms allowing her to feel that, as her protector, nothing would get past him. He was the one and only one who could take care of her the way she needed to be taken care of. He let it be known that no one could ever love her the way he loved her. When she started to question herself, he was agreeable and understood why she felt that way, but then – wait!
Have more patience with me he would say. I’m sorry he would murmur. Forgive me he would whine. I don’t deserve you he would cry. He knew a sap when he saw one. While not a musician, he knew which strings to pluck and play. Why could she not see that someone was needed to protect her from her protector?
She knew. Yet, over, and over, and over again she allowed herself to be baited and switched. He knew a sap when he saw one.
Inevitably it happened. It was bound to. She came unglued. Wild horse untethered, shaken carbonated soda-can explosion of a meltdown. Frustration and sadness – a life form unto itself; it finally happened. She detonated.
This kind, caring individual: mother, daughter, sister, friend, mentor, student and teacher fell away from her partially restrained life like a soiled bandage past its prime. This verbally law abiding citizen committed an act of oral abuse. Unleashing more than a quarter of a century’s worth of inflicted censorship and twenty seven plus years of acceptance of worthless apologies, she morphed into one high blood pressured, apoplectic middle aged woman.
This otherwise outwardly calm lady was done. Baked. Kaput. Her emotional strength drained from her tired body. Like a well that’s run dry, she internally heaved and let out one last sound: A deep-gutted moan infused with a guttural groan rolled past her larynx and pressed on through partially opened terrified lips.
The body builders at the gym straining to lift their multi-kilo crucible, the karate adversaries high kicking at one another’s solar plexus, the constipated and those emerging from nightmares might fractionally, fractionally, come close to the sound of this spirit’s defeat.
The pain that wrenched her body and tore at her soul was relentless. Waves of confusion as her tormentor sought to console and blame her simultaneously pushed her to a limit beyond all limits. Stumbling, grasping at the unstable terrain, she flailed and lost balance. Fingers in rigor mortis form raked the jagged rocks that tore at the sensitive flesh of her self, pawing the thin air that was the only thing left between her and the beyond. And then it happened. The wretched choreography of the damned and the who gives a damn; she crossed over.
There was nothing left to grasp. Sanity at this point was just a faint memory, an illusion of what could have been — what might have been. There was no more. She let go.
Gravity pulled her down like a ton of bricks. Gaining momentum she rocketed earthward. Eyes closed. No more fight. No more will. Take me. Take me.
With a dull, hollow thud, she hit bottom. Her body bounced a couple of times upon impact. Dust flew up around her in a cyclone of fairy particles that settled, over what seemed to be drawn out minutes, but what must have been only seconds.
Defeated. A white-flag moment. No more fight. No more will to fight.
Time stood still in the quiet aftermath of the soul’s demise. With downcast eyes mourners whispered prayers for the loss of a soul. When all that could be said was said quiet overtook the violent scene. There was no more sound; it was dead quiet, like being sealed in a vacuum. The quiet crept into every corner and rolled back into the center of the crime until it seemed to implode. A black hole of quiet. The ethereal silence seemed to signal closure.
Time passed. Those closest that witnessed the surreal scene prepared to leave, heads bowed and hearts heavy, and then it happened. A life form was felt. A presence so strong, so pure, so unbelievably solid that you didn’t need to see it to know that it was there. It was beating and breathing and beautiful.
The soul was still alive! The soul had survived!
Unfurling, like petals breaking free from a raw, green bud, the spirit of the soul emerged. It opened and came alive. And as it commenced its rebirth and prepared for its victory walk, the flesh was compelled to be a part of the whole. In cinematic fashion what had been done was now undone.
Her strength was impenetrable. Calm and dignified with love and truth pouring out from every pore of her being, she reigned supreme. Nothing – I mean not a thing, could touch her. Anger fell away from her, reaction and judgment didn’t exist, and purity of spirit was worn like a cloak woven by the angels themselves: a rebirth of the highest order. This soul, super heroine of the forgotten and betrayed spirit lived.
Should one dare to listen to the quiet in the midst of a storm, it can be heard. When the chips have fallen and the dust has settled, the bruised spirit lives on. When inner strength is summoned to quietly right a loud wrong, the soul, the super hero, the super nova of our being exists. It always has.