The soul’s journey is as elusive as its existence, one can but have faith, that just as I know the soul is no less real than the smile of innocents, its destination is worthy of the thorned path we tread.
It is light on empty trails, the solace of strangers, both the way and the why, neither bound by reason or by the rational, it is dappled paint on the canvas and ink scrawled upon parchment dry, it is the beat of the drum, the singer’s lament and the poet’s tribulation.
It is the dancer, it is the Dance.
And I am lost without it. And I am lost to it.