The Journey to a Human's soul

Written today @ 6:45pm, taken from a journal.

Souls illuminate differently to me. The mailman's soul might be brighter than my brother's. I "know," before I really do, and I love having that gift. Your soul, my human friend, is bright; it makes the world turn paper-white, and makes eyes see no more than the blind can. However, I see some thing in there that involuntarily causes my chest muscles to relax, something like feeling intoxicated. Its an odd but comforting sensation that I can only describe as something similar to when someone's heart sinks. So it makes me want to lunge and discover the diamonds in your soul and emeralds in your eyes (door nobs for your soul). It makes me want to reach through that "angel-wing-white" blinding haze you throw and know, but I am planets away. All foreign souls, not our own, are that far away and take many journeys in order to reach and understand. No one said anything was easy, and I don't expect it to. That is part of the final joy, they say. My soul will reach yours in time. And as two entities from some unknown world, they will roam and flirt among the haze like two faceless and formless ghosts, as when two plastic bags dance in the wind. For that is how humans work and connect. So for now, I inhabit a road pale as Danish, white as birth, light as snowflakes, and transparent as ghosts.

My eyes are blind to all I see,
and this curiosity is fed by ambiguity.
There's no soul brighter
and no feeling, lighter.
There's no eye more magnetic
and no aura more electric.
So I venture off
through the doorways in your eyes,
through the pastures
where the green grass
feels as soft as a whisper.

"La vérité vaut bien qu'on passe quelques années sans la trouver." - Renard