Tuesday, December 23, 2008
One of my pastimes is to peel away the layers of a soul. It hurts like billy-o* but is immensely satisfying to expose the core. Layer after layer of petty sins and crimes are exposed in pastel shades of blues and reds, creeping into the primaries for the mortal sins and the unforgivens.
At the core – which is almost always a shade of calico – the soul stands proud and free. It’s rare indeed for a soul to be so inherently corrupt that it has succumbed to the darkness and turned grey or black. The values and mores of society mean that people are basically good at heart and only carry sins like the germs and detritus of a subway train, carried home on the sole (ha-ha) of a shoe.
They are remarkably resilient, these little bright bubbles of regret. When I take out the pins they spring back into place, clothing the soul in their wants and needs.
I had a look at yours last night – isn’t there something you should confess?
*the soul, that is. It only hurts me if I get my testicles caught between two bricks.