The Soul
In a place where time has no meaning, he sang. He sang to no one but himself as he swam in a world of darkness. The loneliness of being a soul lost in the dark blanket of – not solitude – but a crowded pool of souls left to wander the place of voicelessness.
He often wondered if he would ever leave the compounds of his own mind and travel where his dreams of basking in an endless light danced before his eyes. He played his imaginative pictures across the screen of black tarnished souls like a flipbook.
He knew he was not alone in his dark, cold cell of a world, often bumping against other soft bodied souls such as himself. Having no way to communicate to them other than acknowledging their existence through the physical connection like bumper cars set loose with mindless drivers.
This soul knows that there is a better place waiting for him, but how to get there he cannot fathom. His mind plays tricks on him, giving him the illusion of light after so much darkness.
No one, not even he, can remember where or when he came to be. He lives in a world where time is non-existent. He knows not what a body is other than the form he takes now, and even that is only what he thinks it is – not knowing if he is but a shadow or made of atoms and cells.
Lost in time, in space, in his mind, he drifts. He watches his flipbook of images, believing that a soul lives forever, but in reality, he knows not that he will die.
* * *
The creator wades through her dark pool of souls, knowing that their thoughts dream of worlds they’ll never see, never know, for souls are not created equally. These were handpicked by her own hand to do her bidding. She allows some souls through the passage of endless time to live and die in a body. Human or animal, plant or merely insect, she cares not, for her creations are only for her entertainment.
These souls, these black possessions she uses to create her injustices upon the souls she’s given true life to. Each black soul bounces off of her. Carefully she chooses one, not caring that it has dreams of light or darkness, not knowing that this soul could make or break her mold of being.
* * *
This dark plastered soul, with imaginative pictures of light bringing him out of darkness can feel the creator’s caress thinking it to be nothing but the bodies of surrounding souls. In his mind he can suddenly hear the voice of a woman. Her singing more beautiful than any pictures or sounds he can create.
He imagines that this must be the light he’s been waiting for.
He pulses his body to the rhythm, thinking he’s not alone in hearing the voice. Other souls he can feel are touching him trying to share in the beauty.
The music that only a creator can create turns to screeches and screams. The soul shudders to a stop. The light he had been imagining for an infinite amount of timelessness ends replaced only by images of death and desertion. New images of pain fill his mind and thoughts of believing a soul never dies is replaced with a doubt so deep he folds into himself.
* * *
The creator watches as she tortures the soul in her hand. She had given it life, not the life that some of the other souls were given with bodies, but life in her daunting waist deep pool made for evil magic. She relies too heavily on it, on them, for her strength and she knows it. Not the only creator in her endless infinite world, she fights for respect amongst the others. She regards the others with distaste and hatred believing that they have no right to rule the worlds so close to her own. No matter, she decides taking the last of the black aura surrounding the soul in her hand using it to feed her happiness and her power. Life and death is but one nick in an eternal timeline.
* * *
Feeling the weight of his own death, the soul cries out, something between pain and sadness escapes within his final breath. The countless souls swimming in the voiceless pool, incapable of communication except touch, hear his cry.
* * *
A shockwave of sound pounds the creator, knocking her into the pool where she sinks to the bottom fighting for air, and for the first time in many millennia, she feels a fear stronger than any hatred kindled in the deep recesses of her own blackened soul.
He often wondered if he would ever leave the compounds of his own mind and travel where his dreams of basking in an endless light danced before his eyes. He played his imaginative pictures across the screen of black tarnished souls like a flipbook.
He knew he was not alone in his dark, cold cell of a world, often bumping against other soft bodied souls such as himself. Having no way to communicate to them other than acknowledging their existence through the physical connection like bumper cars set loose with mindless drivers.
This soul knows that there is a better place waiting for him, but how to get there he cannot fathom. His mind plays tricks on him, giving him the illusion of light after so much darkness.
No one, not even he, can remember where or when he came to be. He lives in a world where time is non-existent. He knows not what a body is other than the form he takes now, and even that is only what he thinks it is – not knowing if he is but a shadow or made of atoms and cells.
Lost in time, in space, in his mind, he drifts. He watches his flipbook of images, believing that a soul lives forever, but in reality, he knows not that he will die.
* * *
The creator wades through her dark pool of souls, knowing that their thoughts dream of worlds they’ll never see, never know, for souls are not created equally. These were handpicked by her own hand to do her bidding. She allows some souls through the passage of endless time to live and die in a body. Human or animal, plant or merely insect, she cares not, for her creations are only for her entertainment.
These souls, these black possessions she uses to create her injustices upon the souls she’s given true life to. Each black soul bounces off of her. Carefully she chooses one, not caring that it has dreams of light or darkness, not knowing that this soul could make or break her mold of being.
* * *
This dark plastered soul, with imaginative pictures of light bringing him out of darkness can feel the creator’s caress thinking it to be nothing but the bodies of surrounding souls. In his mind he can suddenly hear the voice of a woman. Her singing more beautiful than any pictures or sounds he can create.
He imagines that this must be the light he’s been waiting for.
He pulses his body to the rhythm, thinking he’s not alone in hearing the voice. Other souls he can feel are touching him trying to share in the beauty.
The music that only a creator can create turns to screeches and screams. The soul shudders to a stop. The light he had been imagining for an infinite amount of timelessness ends replaced only by images of death and desertion. New images of pain fill his mind and thoughts of believing a soul never dies is replaced with a doubt so deep he folds into himself.
* * *
The creator watches as she tortures the soul in her hand. She had given it life, not the life that some of the other souls were given with bodies, but life in her daunting waist deep pool made for evil magic. She relies too heavily on it, on them, for her strength and she knows it. Not the only creator in her endless infinite world, she fights for respect amongst the others. She regards the others with distaste and hatred believing that they have no right to rule the worlds so close to her own. No matter, she decides taking the last of the black aura surrounding the soul in her hand using it to feed her happiness and her power. Life and death is but one nick in an eternal timeline.
* * *
Feeling the weight of his own death, the soul cries out, something between pain and sadness escapes within his final breath. The countless souls swimming in the voiceless pool, incapable of communication except touch, hear his cry.
* * *
A shockwave of sound pounds the creator, knocking her into the pool where she sinks to the bottom fighting for air, and for the first time in many millennia, she feels a fear stronger than any hatred kindled in the deep recesses of her own blackened soul.
© Sam Raddon 2011
Sam Raddon is a High School English teacher who enjoys basking in the warm Florida sun while trying to inspire himself and students alike. http://samraddon.blogspot.com
Vivid imagery, "...life in her daunting waist deep pool made for evil magic" and I was hooked by "...acknowledging their existence through the physical connection like bumper cars set loose with mindless drivers" If your students are reading you, they're probably not sleeping well. If your bent is fear and discomfort, my down elevator is still descending.
ReplyDeleteSam, this left me breathless. The creator speaks to me. I found myself being swept up in her thoughts and wanting more. Yo spin a wand of magic, here.
ReplyDeleteJeanette Cheezum