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I once met an interesting question:
“What’s the style of your soul?”

I thought about it for some time. What exactly is my soul style? Is it casual? Official? Neat? Smart? Gothic? Renaissance? Modern? Traditional?

Do I even have a soul to style?

How can I prove that my soul exists? What exactly is it- this soul?
I guess it is what keeps me going. Where and how, I don’t know. It’s like a hidden turbo engine that turns on automatically when my spirit hits rock- bottom. It refreshes me when I am so deep in shit that a mere whiff of fresh air hurts my lungs.

My soul is what pushes me on. And sometimes, stubbornly holds me back for no reason. It is as arrogant as a well educated rich fool, but at times as humble as a life giving angel.

When my soul is mad at me, nothing goes my way; it will delay my fortunes and fast- forward my tribulations. All at will.
When I make it happy, the heavens open up for me and I hear angels singing with the clarity of fire crackers during Diwali. Each time I argue with it I am left bruised and torn inside.

My soul's shadow was once seen. It was in the form of the reflection on my mothers face when she held me in her trembling hands after I had made my way out of the warmth of her womb.

My soul is what pushes me to do things no one else would understand. It makes me defy every inch of my body and the rest of humanity, and do what will make my conscience rest easy.

My soul is voiceless, but when it speaks I listen and obey. It is my master. I, its willing servant. It is formless, but there are times I have touched it.
It is weightless, but its presence can burden my heart and make it sink.

Each morning, I know it is looking at me. In me. Over me. Knowing how far I am from mortality and how close it is to immortality. That is my soul. In one word, restless. It describes my spirit and gives expression to my face.

It charges me up and continuously protects me from the ills of humanity. It protects me from evil eyes, and endears me to admiring ones
It is the one true friend that if lost, will never be found again.

That is why it will profit you nothing to gain the whole world and lose your soul. And like Hitler, you will be pampered by crowds on the outside, then choked slowly by the vacuum created by the absence of your soul in the inside.

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