Eat your soul

I looked out my window into the distance; the fog shrouded the lights across the lake in a mysterious kind of way, and I was consoled. Staring into solemnity gave me solace. As I watched the lifelessness, I felt calm. A light drizzle had persisted throughout the day, which also gave me comfort – this was the kind of weather I thrived off of, the kind of weather which gave me energy, the kind of weather that seemed to wash previous troubles away.

As I continued to gaze, I realized I was dreaming. Words fell all around me, and my eyes darted from word to word, creating intelligible sentences which I forgot as soon as I formed them optically. The words then began to be pasted on my wall, and I strung together my sentences into paragraphs, and into pages and pages of text which I scrolled up and down and painted in a multiplicity of colors, color-coded to show significance and emotion. Emotions which to me were unfathomable but I knew my spirit knew their importance. I painted my soul. I penciled my soul out into the floor and screamed at my ceiling for a better writing utensil. Suddenly I had in my hand a quill, with my blood as my ink, and I explained to my floor what love meant to me.

It all happened so fast, as if a blur, yet it was scarred into my thoughts. I awoke from my nap staring at the ceiling, heart beating quickly, and I pondered my dream. My white ceiling was not nearly as interesting as the words which I had been throwing onto my wall with a mere glance, or the intricate text I was scribbling with my blood onto the floor. What had I written? What was my soul? What was love? Could it be explained so plainly and so quickly, with a flick of a quill or a quick glance at my wall? If only I had been more aware that this was a dream, surely I would have paid more attention to the details of the writing…for I thought that I could have looked at these explanations at any time in the future…but alas, I was now looking at a blank white ceiling. No…words, not colors, no emotion. What was I to gain from that? Nothing. A lifeless color glaring down at me, not eliciting emotion, not creating thoughts, not provoking interest. I could dream forever.

I sat up on my bed. My room looked the same, as I got up and pulled on the jeans thrown on the floor. I made my way into my living room, and it was the same room, plain as when I went to take my nap, with nothing more interesting than my guitar which sat on the couch facing the window. The weather was the same as in my dream, yet the walls were not plastered with my dream’s creation. My soul, which I was now sure was to blame for such ridiculous sleepy hallucinations, had taken a walk out of it’s bodily cage – my flesh was an encumbrance for my spirit; dying to get out and traipse the earth which I trod daily. Yet…souls, I thought, were the creation of organized religion, just a mystical excuse for the powers of the mind; was I wrong in my assumption? Or had this dream yet again provoked such thought as to create false theories of wispy bodies coming forth from our flesh? I would never know. But the dream, surely, had such a profound impact on me, that I would have to seriously re-calculate my belief, or as some would call it, disbelief.