Presents are made for the pleasure of the one who gives them, not for the merits of those who receive them. ~Carlos Ruiz Zafón
I think my soul is damaged beyond repair, a mass of scar tissue preventing the world from penetrating at any meaningful level. A levy keeping the pounding sea at bay. It may be that I was born with an ultrasensitive soul as tender as newborn skin and it was unable to withstand the normal incursions of a tempestuous world. It may be I was conceived defective, imbued with a soul hardened against the world. It may not be a defective at all simply a component of the grand plan designed because the gods knew I would be unable to buttress breath against the pain of betrayal. In that sense, it could be a gift from the gods to protect me. Or it could be that I would grow into a person without merit so why waste a soul on me. Why? Who can know the mind of the gods?
In the condensed universe of my soul, there is me in the middle, at the molten core. My identity. My Id, Ego. My Superego. All fighting for supremacy. A compact ball, inseparable artifice, the geologic center of the world spinning within David. The next layer my wife, then close family.The next world overcrowded with acquaintances bouncing in an out of orbit. After that? Nothing. Emptiness. No Thing. A void. A vacuum. Vacuity.
I live in a state of sustained self-preservation achieved by carefully constructed isolation predicated on distancing myself from any hint of pain.
Is my soul unhealthy? Perhaps it has been sick forever…I can’t say for sure but suspect it has been building scar tissue for most of my breathing existence, possibly before I was a singularly focused head pushed along by tail seeking union with an egg.
In my late twenties, I dreamed of being a hermit living in the back of beyond, secluded in a world of rock and sun and silence. It was only my children that kept me grounded, present. The desire subsided for that season. I thought it disappeared forever. But, I have lately come to realize this craving has breathed continually on the periphery of my consciousness.
It is only those dearest to me keeping me from absconding. Or, might they be the salve repairing the damage.