Soul

I've never seen what behind those eyes. They might hold beauty or something I've never seen. But what I do know is that eyes hold the window to a soul. The human soul.

The soul is something I've never understood for a while. But I know it is what makes us human. Anyone can have a soul. I have a soul. You have a soul.

Even someone who writes letters or stories from prison can have a soul.

My eyes are troubled. The dark brown in the iris personifies everything that has happened in my life. If you looked into my eyes, you could probably see who I really am.

I'd imagine them a different color as I really find them plain. But they fit me, I guess. They run in the family.

I dream often. But I don't feel like I'm escaping.

We only use a lamp to illuminate the room, it's dull radiance broadcasting over the messy bedroom. But it's crooked, I wonder what that means.

The confines to the room reside on the rectangular object on hinges. Mostly, they're closed at night because isolation provides a familiar sentiment, because it surrounds me and lulls me into neutrality.

But it all stops when I think of you

Whenever I do, I believe you are fine and strive to prove I care. Not as a romantic person but as someone who can be there. All the time spent writing full-stopped sentences is worth it. I get to talk to a person who is somewhat similar to me.

I'm not always there, however. Same with you. And last time I was emotional, I got carried away and ruptured the friendship.

But when you've accidentally fell asleep during our conversations, I can only imagine you asleep. I find it adorable and cute and I mostly say "Good night" to you then in spite of you sleeping soundly.

I can only dream.

Is it weird that I adore how people look when they sleep? To someone else, they think I'm a stalker, but that's false. I like how people look when they are peaceful, calm and happy. But I can only dream. And people can criticize.

My soul is impure and I've witnessed too much. The very same thing that has made me human has also turned me inside-out. I'm sorry for everything that I have caused, just put the blame on me.

It's mostly my cause that has led the conversation down to the doldrums.

But the soulful question I'm wondering is: Do I really care?