short story: Soul Manifesto

I am the spirit.

Maybe someone’s, but I’m the only conscious being I sense all around, so, I thought, that makes me ‘the’, not just ‘a’ spirit (if that is in fact what I am), so it seems unlikely I belong to someone in particular. Perhaps at some point I did belong...belong, to someone...but I wouldn’t know it, I can’t recall much, to be honest. I certainly don’t recall ever becoming separated from any particular body, traumatic that must be.

“I am the spirit” also has a nice ring to it, nice and ominous.

Truth is, I don’t really know what I am. Lacking any and all mirrors, it’s really impossible to know such a thing. I am a silent voice in a vacuum, or perhaps someone caught in one of the more extravagant cosmic phenomena. I could even be the result of a physicist’s botched search for gravitons.

It’s rather lonely, you see, floating or drifting or trans-dimensionally transforming, or doing whatever I do.

“It’s all light’s and colors around here...
...or so I hear.”

I tell myself, probably the funniest I’ve come up with in a while, but I can’t sense anything (or, to the same effect, there’s nothing to sense).

I have a lot of time to spare. Not that ‘time’ really plays a role in my universe, but it seems like an adequate phrasing of the matter, I think.

I think. Don’t ask how. At least I can string a few words together,

I’m just glad I can at least think to myself.

It would be impossible for me to know how long I’ve been here, or if any time has passed, but sometimes I think I’m fading.

Or am I becoming silent more frequently, maybe for longer.

I don’t really know.

It doesn’t seem important; eventually, something will happen or I get comfy for an eternity with myself.

Odds are, I’m in it solo for the long run.