Sometimes when we love someone and they are hurting and in ain, we are sure that if we could just find “one magic word” we could make it all better for them. ~Jody Williams
I woke up this morning completely naked, exposed, vulnerable yet I was still swaddled in my sleep clothing. It was my souls that were naked…both of them…having been flayed strip by thin strip by my dreams. Or was it a single dream? I’m not a dream catcher so lose them moments after my eyelids part. It is as if light enters dissolving the dream memories like a vampire vaporizes to ashes in daylight.
But, you say, humans are born with one soul…one soul to either ascend or descend upon physical death. The argument completely ignores emotional death. Emotional death occurs when the creative soul is either comatose, death, or escaped the corporeal. And pragmatic death when the logical soul follows suit. Both escaping leaves a physical shell of a human without the capability to think logically or act compassionately.
A modern example is the Cheeto in charge and his legions of demon followers including second devil Pence. They are all a modern curse on humanity which seems to be impervious to inoculations of love and empathy or rational thought.
My dream having flayed my two souls opened me to heightened sensitivity and a battle for predominance in tween deep sleep and full awakeness. One of my first recalled thoughts was to completely abandon the work clothes set out the evening before and include colors I felt in my dream.
I sit writing today in a red octopus shirt, white ankle bitting trousers, and blue suede shoes. Not cool like Elvis wore but practical from the Tom’s collection. Not sure why I kicked aside the blue jeans and grey shoes….not sure from a logical angle. The emotive creative soul sings another song. It says I chose bright colors to mask my building sadness, a sadness finding me losing myself in stupid TV shows for fear writing will expose the pain and force me to feel, to face the underlying reason, the latest raison d’être.
And that reason, I am unloveable. I even have trouble loving myself. Am I unloveable because I can’t love myself? Or do I not love myself because no one else can truly love me? Probably, both are variables in the equation, self-fulfilling prophecies.
I have sought many avenues to break the spell. Incantations and activities physical and social intercourse. Both seem to exist only at the surface. The most recent incantation, the one I believed would obliterate my personal Pandora’s Box was to say, “I do.”
That, too, proved a temporary illusion buoying me on a wave of contentment where I felt loved. All waves have a trough where I quickly fell and found myself struggling to stay afloat. My strength waning, drowning is imminent. Perhaps, if I let go, peace, like my dream, will envelop me.