Desmos, the Greek name for shackled, is how I have often felt. It is only in writing this tale that I can feel the bonds loosen unto snapping. For, my life has been near to Phaethon's journey. Emerging from a semi-hedonistic youth entwined with vague Catholic guilt, to eventually arriving on the platform of doubt, a stop before my way to truth. For, as with Iris, the beauty of the rainbow leaves me in wonder, and I can confidently affirm that wonder has given me closure. This tale is the truth, just from one side, mine. I do not attempt to hide any bias, for another's story is not mine to tell. As with my real life, the story is turbulent, for in the beginning you find a youth disturbed, grasping for what he believes dearest. Pains and joys are found, but from both he does that which Ovid had his cast do, change. To metamorphose as a man is not a quick or easy affair. The trials and tribulations of life often seem to stymie the change, or even more often, sink you back further into your original state. Being twenty-eight at the time of writing this preface may mean that I undergo many more changes in my life, as long as it goes; but while it does I shall strive to align all towards what I truly seek. That is what this tale attempts to tell, a story of grasping beyond the passion driven and intemperate self, to find something sustaining, which not only sustains, but breathes life in return. Yet, ambiguous language is dangerous, so frankly the tale shows Bailey begin to ascertain the truth of life, and realize that there is a worthy life within this sphere. Contrary to Jacques Maritain, I may not have a habitus, and this may detract from the tale and attempt at art, as for especially with the beginning, it tells the story of a life lacking virtue. Yet, as Jacques Maritain, I seek to make perfect that which I create in its own image. And to do so I must be honest. Honesty for me includes creating how I recall my own life into my work, which will riddle or enhance the journey with allusion. However, I seek not to simply give an autobiography, or a dull recounting of my life. For if I were to simply retell it, I, myself would lose attention fast and label myself as an outcast sinner. I do not have the imagination to produce fantasy, but what I lay on these pages satisfies me, for it is as it was, and exacting replications can be left to the naturalists and biographers. It is also vital to emphasize that what is written is not any attempt at a progressive history, or guide in any sort of ethics. No, I believe I would be one of the poorest guides, and what I have poured out in these pages is a plea. A plea to think on the good life, as well as the bad. There is no answer given, only prompts which one may form on his own. I was born into a faith but had never embraced it, and even rebelled in some manner, until I started to become faithful, which to this day I find myself still becoming. This is evident in the writing itself, for answers were waning when I began this novella, yet I still sought to find the best of life. And now at the end of the book, I like to think of myself as a very bad Christian, but I still try. And I do sincerely hope that one day I may in good conscience write a redeeming sequel to this novella, if I am ever held fast by virtue. So Christians, atheists, agnostics, and all, you have every right to find fault with my tale, but I will hold fast to it, for what has been done can not be undone. The uplifting part I find is that what unfolds beyond this page is the chance to reflect, and perhaps there will be others who enjoy, as I do, evaluating actions and beliefs, so as to adopt, or even perfect ones learned. Looking back helps me move forward, and only then am I happy in the present, and perhaps the eternal.
-Bailey Blethen
