Take heart. I see your heart. With all my heart, too. We say ‘heart’ but what we mean is our soul. For I have seen a heart, open chest, electrical dependence of each thumping beat, a glorified muscular pump, a necessary vessel: empty of all wonder. The heart we infer, the tragic little heart we call our soul, we cannot see. We can feel it, sense it, and witness the cause and effects of a good soul and a bad soul. What is that? A good soul and a bad soul. Or is there only a soul and the truth and untruth of it’s masters actions?
The soul and identity intertwined and woven in the hands of God, timeless and yet eternal. Either light shines upon the soul or darkness sets. A choice. Not a consequence nor a predetermined state. That delicate heart we call our soul, still receiving and pumping, but it’s contents are neither blood nor gas. Filled with love and responsibility, or emptied by hurt and failed intentions. A soul is a receptacle that can only gives in excess of what it receives. Divine input fills unconditionally. Human input often poisons. Yet we give it away, to him, and her, and them, and everyone in between: what’s left at the end of our earthly run?
This tragic little heart, a new shiny car we must drive eighty years. Maintenance and washes, bumps and crashes. Our most vital organ. Our most delicate possession. No person can stare into that soul. No earthly medicine can mend it’s broken state. It pains us more than skin and flesh, and yet longs for something more. Your soul is who you are, a reflection of a piece of the divine creator. But we see it through the fog and smoke of burnt lies and untruths. This bleeding heart of mine, longs to be restored. To be filled by God and overflow. Just to bleed once more.
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