February 21, 2007
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For all science claims to know, what knowledge of my soul does is possess? Bare and exposed, what does my soul look like? It is unavoidable that when I am in the presence of another human I will realize it and think about it. Their presence affects me by attracting my focus and attention. But alone is where I really am. In a room of blackness, all that is there is my thoughts, and the resting touch of my hands against my body. But it is my thoughts that are loud, active and alive, showing me myself. Stripped of all other objects, sights, and things, what am I? All alone, who am I? Who are you, Lord? Are these loud thoughts only here in my mind so that I may have a way of knowing you? What other purpose would they serve? To argue and confuse to no particular end, until they have washed up dry and empty; full of evanescent substance, like sand in clenched fists. How could my soul have no home, no meaning, no real life? For the very nature of this thing called the soul is that it is the deepest desire of who I am. Thus, it is an entity that demonstrates care for life, and if I naturally did not care about life, then I would think that it does not mean anything. But my soul cares deeply for life! It yearns for a better state of things and mourns for the lost moments in time. Effervescent and undying in potent commands, it does not relay to me a concept of life as trivial and indifferent. If I were a creature with no life inside him, no rioting soul to steer me towards meaning, I would act as such, and live a humdrum life and then die. If my soul was dead, you would see it in my eyes. But this is not the situation I find myself in. And what else is there to follow? The soul is what makes a man discontent to simply obey society and its precepts. The soul shouts louder than any critic, for the soul is honest, but who knows of the honesty of a critic? Who is there to trust? Besides, the critic does not journey with you, to know the path he critiques, but scoffs at a glance, the slight image he receives of me. He must be dishonest, for he is a critic of the unknown, which is the soul. For who knows the soul but you, Lord? Thus, my life is hidden with you.
