Is There a Soul Out There
Life is as ordinary as the fading light behind the rooftops
A quiet reflection on purpose, solitude, and the hope of unseen connection. This piece explores the weight and beauty of giving without asking, and the quiet wondering—perhaps someone out there understands, even without words.+
Is There a Soul Out There
An Epic in Quiet Tones
There are days when the world accelerates beyond its own gravity,
when time slips not like sand but like wind
formless, insistent
and the rhythm of duty crescendos into a noise too loud to mean.
On such days, I do not fall behind.
I pause.
Not from fatigue,
but from a deeper calling that resists motion
until meaning returns to claim it.
My life unfolds in the unseen spaces between others’ steps
in gestures that go unrecorded,
in labors that leave no footprint except in the lives they hold.
I do not wear the armor of acclaim.
Mine is the quiet fidelity of showing up,
of standing watch over the overlooked,
of choosing dignity over spectacle.
It is a life of small revolutions
the kind that never make the news,
but change someone’s world nonetheless.
Not because I am special,
but because I stayed.
The path is neither luminous nor legendary.
It is carved from repetition,
from the weary grace of responsibility that expects no ovation.
And still, I love it
like the mountain loves its shadow,
or the wave the pull of moonlight.
Even when the weight outpaces the wings of my hope.
Even when faith flickers like a candle caught in its own smoke.
Still, I rise.
Still, I return.
Not because I must.
But because I cannot imagine turning away.
Not when someone still waits.
Not when need stands silent, hoping to be seen.
And yet...
there are hours that arrive like riddles
when the light ahead falters, not from absence
but from some unfamiliar shift in shape.
It bends, refracts, becomes
something I cannot name.
It no longer points the way.
It whispers instead of leading.
In such twilight, strange things find me.
A stranger’s word delivered as if scripted from my own longing.
A presence that lingers just long enough to be felt,
not seen.
A memory not mine,
yet carried in the marrow of recognition.
As though the soul remembers a meeting the mind does not.
And in these moments,
I begin to wonder:
Is this the edge of something sacred?
Not holy no,
but human in its most tender architecture.
Not a deity. Not salvation.
Just another soul.
Moving parallel.
Mirrored not in purpose,
but in pulse.
A soul that does not arrive to rescue,
but to remain.
Who knows the shape of silence not as void,
but as language.
Who sits beside me,
not with answers,
but with presence
the rarest kind of courage.
They do not offer escape.
They offer witness.
A gaze that does not flinch from my truths.
A breath that moves in rhythm with my quiet.
A voice that says only,
“I know,”
and means it without translation.
Is there such a soul out there?
Not to complete me,
but to recognize me.
To see in the weight I carry
not burden,
but worth.
To reflect back not perfection,
but presence.
And in that reflection,
a trust begins to grow
not fast, but steady
like spring thaw carving rivers through stone.
So if you are out there,
you don’t have to call my name.
Just keep walking,
not toward me,
but with me
through all that is unclear.
And someday,
without knowing when or how,
our shadows may overlap
and we will understand:
It was never rescue we needed.
Only to be seen.
Only to be known.
Only to walk, together,
