559. Stranger

559. Stranger

It is strange, I was always taught that life is an odyssey, that every step we take nourishes, grows and cultivates our soul. It is what we are, who we are. During our journey our naked soul becomes dyed with the colour of our thoughts, and echoes to the timbre of our deeds.

But as I look upon mine now, I see nothing familiar; no colour, no stain. No blush of my conscience, no sully that ought lay unrevealed. I hear no echo of my clash and toll, I hear only a symphony played by instruments I recognize not.

I have become a stranger to my own soul.


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