Charles Pendelton
      © 2008 Marty Langdon
Chapter 32 (Introduction)

Towards December of 2003, my girlfriend Maya stumbled upon a box inside a large
wooden crate in the basement of the home we were renting. Inside the unlocked box
were all the writings that I have carried with me from place to place throughout the
years. The journals of hope I wrote when I was with Harmony. The second she broke
that seal, it was as though she had opened Pandora's box, and I knew the very
moment I saw those books, that nothing was ever going to be the same again.

In all honesty, I spent months debating whether or not I should open
the Harmony journals. Finally, I would find I had no choice.

As I read and rewrote endless pages of fading penciled notes, I found I had stopped
going out at night, to become a shut-in. Ever typing on that infernal computer.
Friends would come over, but as soon as I came home from work, I would isolate
myself and type. A year later, Maya would move out, my friends would stop calling
me, and I would find myself alone. Basking in the sanctity of all me and Harmony
embraced through scribbled notes and jottings.

The second I opened that book, my world would be blown out of orbit,
and it couldn't have been any worse had I drown in a river, because
whoever I was before died that day. The day Harmony returned.

The day we joined hands again in remembrance of the time we shared.

As crazy as it may seem, it was almost like she had come out of the
pages of that very book itself and was with me again. To look in her
eyes again. To hold her gently in my thoughts. Until I reached the end
of course, and the nightmare unfolded once more. Now, I must lose
her again. So please allow me to wallow in my own self-pity for a while.
To self-destruct in time, and to once again mourn her passing.

Because of these wretched woes, this book has become
more of a curse for me than a blessing.

Enjoy it, I wrote it for you.

As for me, I'll probably wind up living my days alone.
In this solitary confinement we call a human existence,
or at least until I can seal that box again.

(Figuratively speaking)

All I want is for this book to live on in the hearts and minds of those who read it.
Surely, the next breath I take will be my last, and so I must hurry. The same goes
for anyone walking the earth today, though I do not expect them to believe me.

Just look at everything in God's time, and you will understand.

Take in everything you see and feel, and know you're being judged
because in God's time. . . We're already dead.

Before we begin, it is imperative you understand that this book has been
written from several journals. Not only will I be your storyteller on this
incredible journey through the past, but I will also be your guide, your
narrator, and your friend, if you let me.

So, sit back, relax, and most of all try to keep an open mind,
because this story is unlike any other you will ever read.

In adult words, will I retell a tale with accuracy. Occasionally, I may
spawn the child’s point of view, or even ponder (in an artistic sense)
the very essence of the situation as it is unfolding. Even more so,
will I create a form of prose, intricately woven to convey meanings
no child would have been able to express logically at that age.

And even though some of what you will read may seem a bit far-fetched,
can you honestly tell me there has never been a moment in your life where
something so incredible has happened, you long to express it in words?
Instead, you suppress it, because no one would believe you anyway.

In theory, we all live in glass houses.

The clock is winding back.
The year is 1970.
And I am young again. . .


Pandora by Walter Crane -