Notable philosophers over the centuries have believed that the soul was not something that you were born with– it was something you earned, something tangible that was gifted to you through trials and tribulations and suffering.
I told a friend of mine that I don’t believe in the soul, and that if there is a hell, that I’m okay with going there for my disbelief. I’ve already been to hell, or very near it. It’s livable, manageable, so long as you realize that you don’t have any choice in whether you live in the dark or in the light.
And really, it doesn’t matter which.
A great poet once told me that there is very little difference between falling in the light and falling in the dark. Everything that is there in the light, will still hurt you in the dark.
The only difference is the fear.
And that’s how I’m feeling today. I feel like I’m groping around in the dark, waiting for another great fall. I’ve hit rock bottom in the center of my soul somewhere, and I’m scratching and clawing my way back up, just so I can fall down again.
I only wish I knew where it all came from, or how it finally got to me. It seems these days I’m picking up the pieces more than putting them back together.
I’ve talked to those who are nice enough to lend an ear, or a hand, and I’ve written my soul out in poetry and prose or worse. I’ve tried everything besides voodoo and witchcraft, and I still feel like I’m just barely hanging on like the red and yellow leaves.
So it goes.