What is my soul but merely and simply the memory I have of myself. It is what calls itself “I” when I utter the word. It is what I call my spirit.
It is what I call my ego. It is my memory of myself. The soul can only confess itself.
I feed my soul what it enjoys and what it seeks to remember: sometimes good feelings, sometimes good experiences, and sometimes good ideas. I avoid
feeding it what it wishes to forget: sometimes bad feelings, sometimes bad experiences and sometimes bad ideas. What I remember about myself, the idea
I have of myself and the memory I constantly provide it, continues to oversee my morality, my knowledge, my emotion, my creativity, my language and my
will. It longs to perpetuate the good and suppress the evil I am inherently capable of. My ego, my memory, my soul and spirit, the limits of my own
knowledge of my own being, my very self, is finally, after a life of servitude, under my control.
Before the escape from its addiction, my soul absorbed the souls of others. It automatically assimilated any outward expression of other souls, other
memories, other abstractions, to the point of confusing them with my own. Whenever books, television, the media—whatever souls adhere to these
days—whenever they professed the souls of those who conceived them, I allowed them unrestricted and unfiltered access to take up residence in my
memory; and there they remained collecting dust and mold. My soul was diluting itself and absorbing so much, that it became overfed, over-ripened and
This fearful realization was found in the art I created. When I put my soul to canvas I wasn’t happy with what I saw. I wasn’t creating for myself
or beyond myself as an artist should. Instead I created for the souls of others, and for the most part, it was their souls that ended up on the
canvas. When one looks in the mirror he doesn’t want to see someone else. When I looked at my canvas I didn’t see myself. What arose from this
abstraction was depression, misanthropy, material addiction, pettiness and vanity, very real and physical denials of my own soul. Like a plant that
refused to flower any longer, my soul remained withered and unwatered. This despairing period was the result of my starving and addicted memory
constantly absorbing anything that was put in front of it, even anything stale, mediocre and without the flavours it enjoys remembering. It became
embarrassingly clear that nutrition applies not only to the physical aspects of the body, but to the seemingly intangible aspects as well.
For that reason I embarked on a quest for a healthy spirit, a more refined and beautiful soul. I no longer absorbed, but selectively devoured or
discarded the souls of others. I became a predator, a marauding wolf on search for his next meal, a metamorphosis that would appear both healthy and
beautiful to the soul. Language and words, whatever anyone expressed, became the vehicle of souls, the exoskeleton of anything meaningful their soul
could produce, and like the shell of a clam I cracked them open to get at the healthy meat inside. And like a wild animal I became exceedingly
elusive. No soul will devour my flesh unless on my terms. No one has any casual rights to it.
My soul stopped spilling and spitting everywhere.
I was no longer obvious or typical, but an enigma. Only those who I loved deserved its grace.
Now I allow very few souls to reside in my memory as exalted ones, the result of the artistry with which they conveyed the beauty of themselves.
Often times I catch a glimpse of Plato’s Socrates when I inquire; Buddha reminds me to be aware at all times; Voltaire and Nietzsche attack from
within the methods I utilize to approach ideas of little value; I recognize Oscar Wilde yearning for art through my eyes; and when thrown into the
feeding frenzy of humanity, I respectfully try at all costs to refrain my inner Hunter S. Thompson. My soul has devoured, and to this day channels,
the spirits of others, some alive but most dead. My teachers, their souls devoured, are as much a part of me and my culture as is my greatest master
and the mother of my soul—nature. Like a good scavenger, I salvage what I can of whatever they left behind, scouring the junkyard of their language
for remnants of their soul, and treating them as a mechanic or an artist would spare parts for a project—the most important project. My soul, that
collage of memories and my greatest masterpiece, will be the only worthwhile thing I leave behind, to become a memory, a spirit, and a token of
gratitude upon my death.
Until that time comes, I remain exempt upon a mountain, watching the souls forever collide beneath me. Here and there I leave a piece of my soul to
remind the other spirit wolves, if there are indeed any left, to know they're not alone.
edit on 1-9-2012 by LesMisanthrope because: (no reason given)