Wonderings and Reflections on
Souls and Whatnot
I’m not sure I believe in souls.
I’m not even sure if I want them to exist.
It might be that I do not wish
for these bodies of ours to be empty,
it might be that I hope to prevail when mine
decays.
I tried imagining the colour of everyone else’s
soul;
I tried imagining the shape, the size, the
texture;
I tried to think of them as sounds, as waves,
as frequencies;
I tried to see animals and trees and flowers
in the eyes of every person I met.
I tried to guess who had their soul in their
whole body,
who had a soul that dripped out of the corner
of their eyes,
who kept their soul hidden away in the wrists
or the back of the neck or right below the ear.
I tried imagining people giving away
little bits of their soul every day,
putting those tiny pieces in everything they
did with love.
So it occurred to me that when we die
we actually just run out of soul.
At the end of the day I look back
on my wonderings and reflections
and realize I looked for people’s souls
before looking for their arms
because I am terrified.
Terrified of being stuck with
a grey, square, minuscule,
rough soul.
Terrified that my soul might be
silent, still, a dead bird
or rotten bark.
My fear is that my soul
is in the souls of my feet.
My fear is to have no soul to give.
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