Your Soul lives within you like the night. Soft. Silent. The space between dusk and dawn.
It lives quiet, like a secret within your breast, between the times you listen to it.
Perhaps on top of a mountain as you gaze, mouth softly open, at the green stretches of valley ablaze with wildflowers.
Perhaps on a vast, shimmering, luminescent ocean of blue when you, too, feel like you stretch out forever.
Perhaps in the quiet of your favorite chair at home, a mug of tea steaming beside you, when you read the poetry of life, of another's heart.
It surges, then, your Soul, inside you.
A wild creature clasping to be felt, heard. Born. Aflame with its own light.
For you to awake to its formidable beauty.
But in between those times it won't push or tug at you.
It won't pull on your sleeve and say, Here I am. Look at me.
It's polite, perhaps too polite.
It's not grabby.
It's not a needy child.
For you, you, are the one who needs It.
So it waits. Quiet. Patient as eternity.
For you to notice.
Turn towards it.
And say Hello, you.
Until that time
It'll tug you sideways. Through the messages of others.
A phone call from a friend, a "chance" meeting with a stranger who gives you exactly the medicine you need.
An insistent pull to hike to Africa to see wild elephants and giraffes and lions so you can remember wild.
A dream where you fly among stars and sing with the crescent moon.
Mostly, your Soul speaks the language of strange.
For it (usually) doesn't fit into the mold of what you believe to be real.
It waits, like the night, like the space between your breath.
For when you're ready to listen.