It’s not simply that the soul can break off into a thousand pieces, it’s not that it has the potential ability. It does. It breaks. The sea-sauce of which we are made is blended a thousand times over, so much so, that it is impossible to say what is me and what is you. Air, flesh, food. No one has sat in an empty room. Genetics, lineage, traits, habits, lies.
All lies. The memories of people we keep, our barest form of truth.
The flesh is a semi-permeable membrane. We can only hold ourselves together for an eighth of a blink. And when we die, when the soul, crooked and bent and rusted into a pound of flesh, explodes out again into freedom, we all feel it. It hurts.
That which was my father, mother, friend for as long as I can remember now belongs back to everything. She spins through me. He calls to speak. And I have no defense. I must listen. My skin is useless and porous.
I can feel you as powerful as a newborn, strong like a volcano, pure, like the first urges of love.
In truth, we are a hundred trillion molecules, and one.