A Gathering
In a gathering of souls who recognized and sang to mine
I heard echoes of ages long past and words supremely divine.
Whispers of shared secrets ’til then remained undivulged
But in a glimpse of perceived awareness were firmly nudged
Toward a well-honed life able to shed its own sustaining light
Amidst wiser old souls glimmering far brighter in the night.
Picture Courtesy of Jenikmichal, Pixabay
Cynthia Calder, 11.02.24
Old soul
My parents say I’m an old soul. They’re probably right. I was accidentally invited on a birdwatching walk for senior citizens when I was university, and I went on it! I joined a knitting circle once, and everyone else there had at least twenty years on me. I’m twenty four years old right now and I feel like my soul is older, like I’ve lived more experiences than twenty four years ought to be able to hold, but perhaps that’s because I lose myself in fiction as often as I possibly can, trying to pretend I can live lives other than my own, that other souls could overlap onto mine like a Venn diagram or a kaleidoscope. Some semblance of more than humanity, of animal or vegetative souls like the sort Aristotle wrote about.
To say that this thing, this beast, this dark force, a shadow lurking in every darkness was older than time would not be accurate. Before time, there was not a before. Yet, the Old Soul exists there. Time has a beginning. Perhaps it will have an end and yet another beginning, but the beast does not care. For it exists separated from time.
In the absence of anything, it thrives. It tries to breach our world, to drive mankind to a sort of madness. Just try to imagine an atheistic afterlife. Thinking of nothing brings you closest to shadow, to darkness. Those who think too hard on the topic graze the fringes of this Old Soul, this beast. They touch madness and are driven, in pain, toward it. The Old Soul consumes a part of them.
It can touch, only, the things that have no substance. It is infinite, because there is no infinity. It is silence and stillness. It is emptiness and abyss. It feeds on the lonely and lost for their lack of a thing. Every outline encircles it, and every blank stare pulls at it, bringing it closer to reality.
To fight this Old Soul, the only thing one can do is fill their life with as much substance as they can. One day, despite it all, the Old Soul comes, and it will not consume you, but will thrive on the lack of you. So, weaken it. Fight it with love and music, and your favourite things. Keeping yourself occupied feeds it with neglect. It will be satiated until the day it is not. Such is life, to an Old Soul.
A Timeless Power Struggle ...
In the shadowed expanse where no stars had yet dared to cast their light, two ancient souls confronted one another. Each was a silent force—one bright as a star turned inward, the other cloaked in shadow, a void where all light was swallowed. They had been there since time began, locked in an endless conflict neither could flee nor resolve.
The luminous soul was the first to break the silence. "Your influence spreads like a plague. You twist hearts, corrode minds, and tear lives apart. Why do you cling to this path, my old adversary? The world would know peace without you. The beauty that could be, unmarred by darkness, free from the shackles of suffering you impose."
The darker figure chuckled, a cold, rich sound that filled the empty void. "Ah, but would your beauty even be seen if there were no shadows to frame it? You wish to fill existence with light alone, but you forget that without contrast, it is only blinding. In my shadow, mortals find the depths of their spirit, discover resilience, strength. You think I spread despair, but I offer them the one thing you never will ... freedom to choose."
"Freedom to choose what? Pain? Desolation?" the bright one retorted, his voice tinged with sorrow. "You call it freedom, but it is simply a path to destruction. I would spare them the agony, guide them toward peace. What good is the chaos you bring? In your darkness, they stumble, lose themselves, become something less than they were."
The dark figure’s eyes glinted, fierce and sly. "Less, yes, or perhaps … more. It is in the suffering you so despise that they are tested. Your paradise breeds obedience, but they find their strength in my shadow, pushing beyond your narrow limits. They seek heights you would keep from them, only to come groveling back to your stifling light."
"Your cruelty knows no bounds," the bright one replied, the sadness deepening. "You give them a fire that burns, not warms, that blinds, not guides. Your 'freedom' leaves them hollow, driven by insatiable desires that consume them. When they reach for solace, they find only the empty promises of shadows."
"And what of your light, then?" came the mocking reply. "You demand love, but your love is a cage. They worship you not from joy, but from dread. They fear the consequences of leaving your path, and so they obey. Mine is a different realm. It is untamed, unfettered, free of the gilded chains you offer. I give them the raw flame of choice, unbounded by your eternal rules."
The bright one’s glow dimmed, his voice softening. "Choice? Or are you simply the lure that leads them to despair? You thrive on their pain, on the ruin of those who trust you, only to be left with nothing. My path offers something lasting. Peace. A wholeness your darkness could never provide."
A faint smile flickered over the face of the dark soul. "Yes … peace indeed. An eternity of stillness. That is death, not life. You offer them an end. I, on the other hand, give them something to live for. The fire I kindle may burn, but it also ignites, urges them onward, dares them to transcend. They love you because they are afraid of what lies beyond; they love me because, in my darkness, they know themselves."
The silence that followed was heavy, as though the weight of their words had settled upon the vastness of the void itself. They gazed at one another, the unending rift between them stretching into infinity, and within it lay the worlds they shaped. Whole galaxies spiraling forth from their opposing visions, destinies forged by the fires of their unyielding wills. Their debate pulsed into the very fabric of creation itself, woven into the existence of every soul.
Neither broke the silence again; they simply stared across that timeless gulf. And somewhere, in the heart of the darkness, in the core of the light, each held a small, bitter recognition that neither could be without the other. Unyielding, immutable, they resumed their vigil, locked in the unending contest.
Unseen by the worlds they watched, their names lingered in that silence, known only to those wise enough to seek: God and the Devil.
Old Soul, Slam Poem
Old Soul?
Do you even know what the fuck that means? It means I don't have any fucking friends. It means I buried my wants and needs so far don't I can't see them anymore. It means I put others in front if myself. It means I do what I'm fucking told, not because I'm ok with not being in control, but because I have to. It means my hands are tied and at the same time, I'm the one who feeds the dogs, drives the car, makes the meals, gets you up, brushes your teeth, puts you to sleep and does it over again. I'm only ten. I'm only ten and I'm already an adult. I can count the amount of times I cried but I've lost count of how many times I comforted you. And guess what? It earned me a complement, a fucking complement.
I tried, you know I did.
I tried to do everything. I was there, even when you weren't. I was hungry when the dinner was burnt. I was restless, when you were half asleep and you don't remember any of these things.
And you're not gone, I just got away. You're not gone, but my dad still asks me why I'm not ok.
You're not gone, but you're still not here, or anywhere.
My dad just asked me why I'm upset.
It used to me my brother who I spoke up for instead.
And now when I need him his will has flown away.
My voice has shut up inside.
I can't handle this anyway.
It's not ok.
It's not ok
It's not ok
It's not ok
You asked me why I'm different now,
why I'm not ok.
I could name a million reasons but that doesn't make it change.
And, I know you want to help me but that doesn't make me sane.
I'm not ok
I'm not ok
I'm not ok
You want to know me then forget me half the time.
You say you want me happy but that doesn't mean you try.
I told you the problem is but you just said I lied
And I try
And again I try
I try to be hopeful
I try to be good
I try to be different
because you think I should
But I'm not so different
and I'm not alright
I still have satan whispering by my side
I wish to hope
I wish to try
but that old soul says it's time to die
Do you know what it holds?
Do you know what it means?
Do you think you owe me an apology?
Do you think that someday I'll be alright?
Do you think I'll make it through the night?
Do you know what's holy?
Do you know what's true?
Did you know I've always been afraid of you?
Afraid you're broken, afraid you'd cry, no matter how hard it is I try
my old soul
is dead inside
yet I'll always be by your side
by your side
One More No.
I don't know, what is it makes me dwell on November
Almost all the year a different kind of new, to us
10 months gulped, and this 11th emits a long cold yawn
A mist or fog that sits, pneumatically upon the lung
of Mother Nature, for those not perpetually on vacay
I look at the calendar, ah yes... it's All Souls Day.
Old Soul, or Never Child
Is it really too brash to say that someone who acts with an 'old soul' is someone who may have never been a child.
They may have grown up being the adult, where their parent had lacked to inspire,
Creativity in the mind, childish play and things that you would expect of most adolescents.
Innocent words.
'Old Soul.'
Yet the twist on the why behind them might be a little more sinister.
Was she the girl who signed leases for homes she bartered to rent at sixteen?
Was she the therapist to men older than her by twenty years?
Hard to say, but she was treated with little regard.
Come to when useful, but left with little companionship to match her 'old soul' as some might say.
It's almost similar to the concept of brains and agony.
The smarter you are, the more bleak life can look.
Broken in the ways you must navigate it,
And disheartening in the way that those of less qualified means to manage their assets and future.
We 'old souls' cannot be the purveyors of all that we touch,
but we can be old. Old like the men and women of 1920s, but sick with depression and loneliness like they were when they came to find everyone they knew and loved had long passed.
Are we really old?
Is our soul old?
Or is our heart tired.
Battered and beaten,
Hardened to the ways life twists and leaves its imprints.
Mark me when I look up to the people who call me an 'old soul' anymore,
and I tiredly remark "I know," to them.
Because they know that I know too, the weight that comes with it.