Beneath the skin, beneath the bloody muscle and bone, beneath the shroud of conformity we wear, tho it’d not fit us well, there is a truthful essence, passed to us before birth, like a memory, ours, but also legion, a feral, yet incorporeal will, a light so bright that the universe shields itself with darkness from its blinding. This essence, so powerful– that we dare not even be aware, yet we are– aware; perhaps it is the soul, or the soul’s recall of its ubiquity, tho perhaps something more sublime– a thing which religion can’t covet, and that the poets shall never know by name.

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