Letters to my unborn soul

Fumbling in the dark.
Deprived of approval, my ego shrivels and dries up.
I’m the centerpiece of an existential wasteland
I don’t know how what to do with my eyes if I don’t have an external fixture with which to divert their consuming darts
I don’t know how to speak to this darkness
Especially when I don’t hear anything back, not even an echo
My mind wants something to grasp, to control
I realize my soul’s untouched because my focus is enslaved by my ego
Whenever I contemplate freedom, I’m branded by my shackles with jolts of the terror that is supposedly outside the safe confines of the ego.
But if it’s my safety the ego is concerned for, why punish me for wanting to live?
I realize that there was a time that I was too young, too feeble, too weak to brace the darkness on my own. There was a time I needed to be cocooned by my ego,but that time is no longer.
The world didn’t experience the excruciating pain of existing in limbo, therefore I do not owe it a happy ending. My ego tries to prostitute my wisdom to the world, because I now have parts that can be appreciated and respected by others. For the longest time I thought I had to spread enlightenment to those who looked down on me in my suffering, because I needed to be validated, redeemed back into society. Desperately. I needed to prove that I wasn’t a loser, because deep down I felt all my suffering was because of my outcast status. My ego would posit, if no one knows of your recovery from the comeuppance of your naivety, what’s the point to a happy ending?

I now realize that I don’t have to go back to society.I’ll curate my own story in obscurity and I’ll sustain my soul off it, thank you very much. If anyone needs me, they’ll find me if they follow the trail of afterbirth. Afterbirth of my soul.


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