Pieces of the soul  

wicked_writer 46F
6 posts
5/9/2006 7:55 pm

Last Read:
5/9/2006 8:01 pm

Pieces of the soul

I've my own web site of conspiracies that have been weaved into a story used to substantiate my own experiences/stories from my past. I've been held up in the dark places of my psyche for far too long, along with my own hedonistic journey of the mind, and I want to escape from such places and find my own niche that's filled with light and shadows. What would shadows be without the light, and the light without the shadows? Initially, though, my own conspiracy theories were my escape, but as time has passed, I found that I was chained to my own convictions without leaving room for growth as a person. Feeling as though I were confined by my inability to find the truth and frustrated that it wasn't always revealed. I feel as though I have to be true to myself again, to my inner muse; and so I am searching through a looking-glass darkly seeking my next harbor of experiences to write about.

It's funny when you sift through old papers and find yourself looking back through time and finding bits and pieces of yourself in the words. Irony, you gotta' love it! Everything written reflects a small piece of you regardless of your intent on labeling your work as fiction. I've written hundreds and hundreds of poems, but I can't easily share them with others. It's as though a part of me would be given away with each phrase, each word. But as I sift through the pages of my memories, there is one wound that doesn't seem to heal -- the memory of the time I finally gave a piece of myself away (a poem), and I never got a response. Maybe he didn't care, maybe he didn't know how to respond, maybe he didn't like it, maybe.. a million "what ifs" won't answer the question. That one insatiable question that infiltrates my consciousness out of the blue for no apparent reason is that he did not respond. The fact that he didn't respond almost drove me to madness. I would have preferred a negative response to none at all. It's not knowing that bothers me the most. I can deal with being ignored by most, but not by him, not by the person I truly wanted to befriend.

I found a poem on the internet that aptly describes what I feel about it to this day:

Shy beneath the darkened sky,
a gaze to peer into your reality
within your eyes;
I pushed through the darkness
that was your shroud,
your cloak,
that carried the dagger
that pierced my soul
and left the pieces
to fall within me.

And then I think of Liebniz's (non-verbatim) Hypothesis of Concomitance that states:

For God has equipped both body and soul from the beginning with such great wisdom and workmanship that, through original constitution and essence of each, everything which happens in one corresponds perfectly and automatically to everything that happens in the other (as if something had passed over from one into the other).

Somehow that hypothesis comforts me

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