━━━━━ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐋

61 4 0
                                    






the soul
( 𝒃𝒆𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒆 )

tomorrow we may wake upand pray we dreamed it allbut today the sky grows darkerand the rain will fallthe rain will fall —  barbra streisand

Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.

tomorrow we may wake up
and pray we dreamed it all
but today the sky grows darker
and the rain will fall
the rain will fall barbra streisand











𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐒𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐌𝐄 𝐓𝐎, 𝐒𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐀𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐄.

She was desolate as her late father's gaze yet overflowing as her former mother's love, compressed by rubble yet stretched beyond compare, frigid as the morning air yet scorching as a summer high, and all the contradictions that existed from up, down, and in–between. And who was she?

She didn't know.

Maybe she was that sweet little girl with golden hair, skipping down the lane with her pink stuffed bunny in tow. Maybe she was the elderly lady in her dishevelled apartment unit above, caring for her thirteen fiery cats. Maybe she was across the world in a country unknown, a new culture to explore. Perhaps she wasn't even a she, but a he instead.

She could be in a white city among the wispy clouds, or a dingy dungeon down below. She could be stranded amidst the Mediterranean sea, or suffocated by a bustling crowd. She could be studying excessively at school, or slaving away for her master. Killing, saving, maiming, protecting, eating, sleeping the possibilities were endless.

But above all else, she was alone.

Her whereabouts did not matter, nor did those around her. Her very being was being torn, clawed by the depraved talons of agony. She was a formless entity, unwillingly drifting from any life form the fates had her cross. Searching, searching, yet those whom she sought were nowhere in sight.

Time ticked by, clock hands spinning as precious seconds slipped away. She had no home, no place to stay. No one to accompany her, no one to comfort her, no one to lead her—

Oh, how she pined. Craving as lungs of the living did for air, ravenous as a mother wolf hunting for her starved pups — it's not fair ! —  and the sands of time trickled down the hourglass.

The world was green, splashes of silver bursting sporadically. A howling whistle escalated as she became everything and anything living, dying, and in-between. Anxious tremors of white flickered dreadfully, convulsions of fear exuded from her soul. From life form to life form did she jump, only for it to be fruitless.

Where are you ?

Didn't we make a promise ?

𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬Where stories live. Discover now