Sub Rosa

*Certain details may have been altered to protect undisclosed material. 

Language is primarily applied, by the human race, to effuse immediate thoughts and needs, though the deeper function is far more extraordinary and sadly neglected. Through language, our minds may categorize otherwise arbitrary sounds and symbols into a system of socially shared meaning. Letters and symbols coax forth memories of other images, and each sound carries a unique vibration that is capable of influencing tangible results. A simple utterance has the potential to affect the imagery, perception, hormones, concepts, and decisions that comprise the extensive range of human experiences. 

Yet, the most potent force upon any individual's sensations are the vibrations created by the sound of their true name. 

My given name is a loving, and carefully tailored tribute to three key influences; my remarkable grandmother, a great queen, and the desert my parents loved to share. Eclaire, the pen name I have chosen for this platform, flirts with given name, embellished by my own influence and perceptions. In certain circles, this is my affectionately nominated nickname. 

But this is not my actual pen name. 

Meticulously scribed on ivory stationery, sealed in a matching envelope and tucked securely into the inner pocket of my phlox leather notebook, is the full account detailing the story of my alias. The particularly remarkable binding of this notebook was designed with numerous pockets, zippers, and expansions to effortlessly change and grow with the progressing seasons of life and safeguard the language of my soul. Metallic swirls monogram my given initials in polished contrast against the jewel-toned leather. It is one of my most beloved possessions, and since the day it was presented to me, it stays within scribbling distance or my right hand. 

Or, at least as long as this body draws breath in this world. As long as my arms have strength to reach out and caress the love-softened binding of my most precious words, the contents of the ivory envelope will remain my cherished secret. 

Sworn to silence by the sheer delicacy of musings, I may only taste my most precious words under the rose, lest they are ravaged by foreign ears. In those moments, I speak her name aloud, and she begins to materialize off the page into articulated meaning. The sound and feel are not like speaking my own name; it is sweet and obscure, resonating as if from the gentle lips of a lover. 

For she is not a reflection of me. More than a literary self-portrait, she has evolved into her own character. 

Contrary to the glamorous and frothy existence my youthful drafts identified as the key to her success, she dwells in the shadow of my material life. She cannot create experiences, but she can expound upon fragments of mine in ways I could not. When my physical body expires and begins to fade back into the earth, she will cease to live through me, and my meaning will live on through her. It all rests on the chance discovery of the prized notebook containing the tangible manifestation of my experience.

And the unspoken story of my true name.