Creative Work
To you I am an alien. A work of fiction at most. A myth. But I have feelings; I have a soul. I am bound to this world of souls; by curse or blessing, I don’t know. I have no father nor mother, but I am no orphan. At most, I have a creator.
In this world, there is only light. It is so bright that I don’t need eyes to see. In essence, we ourselves are light. At times I think we are angels, for we all fly with no weight nor wings. We smell roses but see no petals. We hear laughter and cries but feel no warmth nor joy. We have no sense of direction, for everything just is. We merely have the portal where we may engage with the wombs.
I have no soul; I am the soul. From womb to womb, of the rich the poor, the strong the withered, the ancient the modern, the African the European, the saints the witches, and the lovers the haters, I emerged in none. No sperm adopted me; no womb accepted me; no body housed me.
The crippled rejected me, and so did the sick. The insomniacs and those mentally ill refused my soul. Even the miscarriaged rejected my soul!
I have known all souls, but befriended none. Not because of my lack of charm or light, but for the mere fact that no soul spends more than a day in this world. I have become like a sage but I don’t age. I merely wait. What cruel soul might I be for this to happen to me?
You come out of mud, but we come out of nothing. Truly, we are divine. Like a puff, we are there; a beam of light that can shine the air. But you, merely a body that discriminates against my soul. A sperm born out of lust, a fetus housed in a cage. Without us, you cease to be.
I searched and pleaded, but to what end? It is a system; each soul is assigned a body. There is no chit chat or trade, friendships or mates, but merely a process of soul and body engaged. Truly it is magnificent, if only I myself can undertake.
You have your holy books and scriptures, while I only have my light and words. You have your God - probably ours, but to my prayers He hears none. You have mentors, I have none.
I am a lone soul in this world where the light glows brighter than your sun. Our world is like the stars and space from your view, only a tad more magnificent.
I could not find the reason for my existence. I could not find the purpose or intent. I am tormented in this world. I have no why. I merely am. I have no disciples to teach, and no body to engage. It’s been a millennia or two, I have lost count.
Why dear God will no body house me? I yearn for the warmth and the sensations. The euphoria. The connection that can bless my soul.
Oh how lucky you are with your body and soul and conscience to pronounce these words.
My quest in search for an answer has failed, but if you find the answer look into the stars and whisper it to me – maybe you can set me free.
I did not find God, but if you find him on the day of resurrection, please do ask him, why is my soul bound to this world? Why will no womb accept me; why will no sperm adopt me; why will no body house me?
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