The body insists it is real
because it can bleed.
The mind insists it is real
because it can believe.
Consciousness insists it is real
because it can see itself seeing.
But the soul never insists.
It commands.
The body says, I am the vessel.
The mind says, I am the navigator.
Consciousness says, I am the light.
And the soul answers:
I am the fire that burns the light into being.
It is not trapped inside the body
the body is trapped inside its permission.
The mind does not imagine the soul
the soul dreams the mind so it can taste its own reflection.
The soul ends nowhere,
so it invents edges and calls them life.
It divides itself into flesh and thought
so that reunion will mean something.
It doesn’t descend;
it detonates into form,
a thousand fragments pretending to be broken.
You think you have awakened,
but the soul is the one opening its eyes through you.
It is the storm behind your calm,
the darkness teaching light to mean something.
When the body ends, it reclaims its elements.
When the mind dissolves, its stories evaporate.
When consciousness dims, the theater goes dark.
But the soul remains—the unseen audience,
applauding the play it wrote in eternity.
You do not carry the soul.
The soul carries existence.
It is the architect of paradox,
the border where night and dawn define each other.
It does not wonder what it is.
It wonders what else it can become.
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