I read your soul in your divine words and am honored to be let into your brilliant spark of life. I feel the weight of my soul. The soul always finds life again, a seedling is always left behind after obliteration to begin renewal. It is covered in scars and perfect. The soul can heal and it does reside in all of us so why do we resist the idea of our soul. We feel it exist within us but cannot name where it resides; the heart, the head or the base of our spine. Perhaps it is a romantic notion to believe in a soul. To believe that something dwells within all of us; something otherworldly, breathtaking and sacred. But when I read your words, I hear your spirit.
You are critical because I am critical. I will be criticized as I hear your thoughts with so few follows. We all have so much to tell that our stories often feel tedious and mundane. Nothing original going on in our head. Is originality truly possible? Hasn’t it all been said before so perhaps we look for new ways to describe the original. Make it seem new again. Hold it up to the light to see a new fascet that illuminates our mind for a brief moment. Reminding us of essential truths. We matter even if we walk alone.
I have watched commercials of starving children and wished for a more beautiful face
I have watched men beheaded and wanted new shoes
I can’t rectify the images I see with the mundane of my life
I hear of abused children and go on a new diet
My heart breaks with every image until I am splitting apart
The cracks fractured like a mosaic
I split into pieces with every horror-filled story
My empathy runs like a cut artery showering the room red
It leaves me washed on the shore exhausted from the swim
I watch a school shooting and try to find the confidence to dwell in this skin
How do I navigate this world of horror and beauty
How do I find joy without being swallowed by the cracks