Anchorite

My soul, the anchorite. Forest and mountain prone. A silence swimmer calmed at the great stillness of falling leaves. At odds with the noisy dialectic of the religious proletariat.

My soul, full of twists and turns, with a weakness for artificial flavours, like obscure chemical chocolates that contain just enough rot to expose those secretive alveolar tooth sockets. I should be more discerning, even of spiritual gummy bears.

My soul, the winged one. She seems to have a distinctive butterfly shape, with eyes protruding like giant yellow flower cups to attract the slender fae forms of a gentle winged wisdom.

My soul, the honorary coin tosser into the fountain of fate; ah, but even that is of dubious quality, more likely distracted by the shady financial plop of riches, rather than rest and reason.

My soul, the floater, often detaches just below my head and enjoys a post-Hippie romp among the white clouds. Things seem so different up here. Do I have a cultural permission slip to see a little differently?

My soul, the critic. Shunning the canned vocabulary and intellectual flaccidity of nice books; yeah, I know, she’s a rebel at heart with a postal tattoo of smug-seeming naïveté, but I have learned to listen to the sadness behind her rants.

My soul lies on the fringe, a spiritual mutt. A little piece of pseudo-art embarrassed by the brutal candour of those mysterious baptised smiling masses. When I lean down and start a conversation with myself I really don’t like her eccentricities, but she seems so electric.

My soul, the driftwood. Sandle-wearing, sitting meditatively cross-legged before the moon and the stars. Longing to see the night sky for the very first time, an unnatural calm obviously belongs to a peace not of this world.

My soul needed control, gripped the steering wheel of life so tightly that her knuckles became locked in a solid skeletal trance. Unrecognisable, empathy depleted, zeroed at the base camp of exhausted clichés.

My soul, mercy beggar. Mystic. Some would say esoteric, yet still, she remains extremely wary of bowing before the conventional and monotonous. She seeks a secluded mountain pass, where clover or phlox bloom, therein lies a remarkable simplicity to console beyond all reason.

My soul, oscillatory flirt. She has a marvellous capacity for misery and happiness, and both at the same time. She is distinctly and originally odd, a conglomerate of clarity and confusion, and with that an unusual degree of intensity.

My soul, egoic saint. She has reached the heights of an elegant, but fiery egoism. Shall I scorch the earth with wisdom? Shall I loose the orbits of planets? Shall the world gaze upon my un-famous words and be filled with impossible longings?

My soul, sweet essayist. Ah, but see how she now hobbles in an unrefined way. Inflicted with a kind spiritual scotopia causing a brief half-stagger. Humility inducing for sure, but still, she cannot resist being as radiant as the sun.

My soul, grinning child. She has a saucer-sized circle of a smile, though you would never have guessed it, she is always wrestling with the angel of language, limping away with a series of rhetorical bruises, lexiconic welts.

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