By Lucy Earl
What do people’s souls look like? Because I don’t think they look like the bodies they reside in, that’s too easy. Do they look like other people? Faces we’ve only met in dreams but we still know exactly which reality to match them to? Perhaps mine is an old man, eyes lit up with the joy of his borderline craziness, or maybe he’s just really imaginative. Is there really a difference between a strong imagination and insanity? Maybe our souls are the forgottens we’ve left behind, lingering on objects or in smells like memories waiting to be picked up again. Maybe our souls are the smell of a childhood home or the sight of an old table. Maybe our souls are colors that don’t have names but make you think of a certain person and you can’t shake the feeling. Or maybe our souls are words, shifting around to form sentences, separating your life into constantly rearranging stanzas. Maybe our souls are the random thoughts we have while we lie awake at night, sticking to the ceiling above us like a mobile of existence hidden in foggy heads. Maybe our souls are soggy days, wet socks, the smell of rain, and the warm feeling in the pit of your stomach you get from laughing for too long. Or maybe they don’t exist in a way that you can hold in your hand. Maybe your soul doesn’t fit into a jar of trinkets collected by those whose minds like to wander. Maybe we can trap them in the words on our page, the ink sinking deeper into the paper as each second passes, like any moment we have, burying itself into the folds of your brain. Our souls, perhaps, are the residue of our existence,a moment trapped in the ribbon of time, fading as it pushes past us, but we still hold on just as tight, because it’s comforting to think that nothing disappears forever.