Sauder your souls together and you’ll bleed when you’re ripped apart. If the soul is a psychological organ, as Jung describes it, then merging souls is no less than learning to live using someone else’s lungs and heart. You aren’t filled with air unless they breathe. Your blood ceases to pump unless their heart pounds.
What does soul blood look like?
Do we imagine, us sweet simple humans, that because we (most of us, anyway) can not see this blood, that it is less violent, than loosing a hand? Less gruesome, less gory than a ripped out lung?
My very intestines are spilling. How do I absorb nutrients when I outsourced my guts?
Such is the danger of blending with another. Put that on the condom wrappers, the way cigarette packs impose cancerous mouthes and dying babies onto our minds’ vision
Hell. All I wanted was a smoke. And a screw.
Not that blending to such an intimate degree is without its pleasures of the moment. watch an egg transform from a perfectly self contained yellow half globe surrounded by clear-white. pop the membrane, blend the difference, a big yellow gel blob. not as pretty (a blended soul looks like the deformed attempts of cloned humans in alien). But the act satisfies.
and it will certainly entertain to try to put the parts in their wholes again, when you miss the saturn inspired, well formed egg.
Nor would I deny any innocent soul the great pleasure of waking bruised and beaten, muddy and bloody, in a ditch somewhere, uttery
I would advise that there is a better way to go about falling love and (if you must) coupling.
Be passionate, be erotic, be companions. But keep your soul your own. Nurture it independent of your love, even AND especially if he is also your muse.
The Lover Muse
A lover who is also your muse has the very dangerous potential of setting a wild fire to your deeply vegetated and overgrown heart,
that which in the past pulled you back up again: the fire will burn up your wild, light bearing and creative soul too.
With a deadened soul it will be very difficult to resuscitate your heart.
Hearts, for their part, are made for lots of love and hurt. They dont mind a good beating now and then. They are sweet, but fickle little things, dipping deep but dancing on the surface. Your soul is always deep. It can not live on the surface. It is too big. and if it is burned up, shut down, who will resuscitate your wild, adventurous and careless heart next time it gets into a scrape?
Beware the lover who is also your muse,
When he becomes the center from you draw inspiration and your own overflowing well (which springs forth from the center of your soul) will cease to flow.
It will happens subtly, but can happen quickly. You think you’re in your power, empowerment pouring forth unabated creative energy, you lose yourself in love and creation, writing pages, hammering shelves, baking cakes, and smearing paint.
And then he is gone.
Without a word, your best friend just fades away, and with him your lover and your muse slip away into the dark from whence they came, as he gives himself over to his own mystery, his own strange soul. And like that your holy trinity (friend/lover/muse) is dead.
It will take a while for the flow to sputter to a stop. First the waters grow stagnant, smelling putrid and eventually drying up so completely you become a parched, withered version of life.
You become old, wrinkled, unable as you are to absorb life, even in the middle of it. Life drips off you like water off a duck’s back and meanwhile you are shriveling from dehydration.
Where is the wellspring? Where is the water, flowing forth? You sit in rivers, feeling the water flow all over your body, hoping that in symbol at least (and later, for real) you’ll come back to yourself. But days become years and you wonder, if this version of death will be your life. And still you seek. You try forcing creativity, by writing every morning and living alone with no tv. You go to school. You make medicines and friends, throw pots and take walks.
You seek so hard you even find the site of the old wellspring. But the stone facade is in ruins now; the water is dried up.
What did you expect? Just finding that old source would make it flow again? Silly bear.
If you let it dry up, there is no return.
You must dig again. You must dig a new well. And dig. And dig. And dig.
It is not easy to dig a new well, to find water by digging in just the right spot. You can not dowse. You’re too dried up for that. Your connection is gone, so there is no energy to guide the sticks.
You will keep digging. And it will take time. You’re weak from dehydration from lack of flow, from the inability to drink.
Even your own source has deserted you. (but who deserted who, you wonder, vaguely). Your old well is poison.
You must dig.
Dig on. And dig on.
a small trinkle
that grows and grows.
It will flow.
And into these waters you can dive, dive, dive deep, and float away on your own underground river.
Don’t turn off the tap again. There are things in life we can not help–death, is all of it. It can shut you off form your source.
Keep your soul.