soul regression

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So you matter to someone, they said. How does it feel?

I guess I hate it. I guess it kills me.

The body is making progress that the soul would kill to see. The body is presenting and its lines are pleasing and the soul is recumbent in a fleshly grave.

Every morning. Even rotting, the body is making progress. Stretch and tweak and the body is writhing.

That which I wish would stay is advancing. That which I wish would advance is stagnation incarnate.

What clothes the body cannot clothe the soul. Each night, the mask is removed.

(Material. Literal. The skin. The hair. The clothes and the shoes and the body that has risen from the slate, dressed. Dressed and undertaken. Meanwhile, the soul has not the power to overtake.)

And I wake up every morning, in my rotting body, bleached with the fear that my soul is not vibrant enough to possess another who would love me. Not a one, let alone many more.

The body, illuminant, refuses to depress.

Nothing stays. Nothing stays.

 

Entropy of absolution: nothing ever stays.

 

Nothing need stay. As a sole entity, the universe is free to act. All one great experiment, with no further need of control.

Control - control, control, control.

What will happen cannot be controlled. You may as well, then, imbibe a thousand more variables.

Sundered months hence.

A picture preserves the starlit body. A memory shapes the glowing soul.

So you matter to someone. So someone is paying attention.

 

So someone

can watch you-

change.

 

 

Always progress.

 

Peace, my love. You cannot abstain from progress.

 

I do not fear aging ten or twenty years.

I fear tomorrow.

The soul is prostrate at the gates of dawn.

I guess I hate it. I guess it flays me to life.