The Geometry of the Soul

Something in me is always trying to straighten itself out. And it never quite does.

Sometimes I’d like to be simpler, like a rectangle. You know where it begins, where it ends. All right angles. Clean and clear.

But I’m not.

I’m more like a drawing that started neatly, and then someone, at some point, let the pencil drift. Not sharply. Just — slightly. And ever since, nothing quite goes straight.

There are parts of me that repeat. The same thoughts, the same reactions, like I’m drawing circles… but they’re never perfect circles. Something always slips.

What confuses me most is that everything has some shape — and nothing has the right one.

There are points in me I avoid. As if I know that, if I joined them, I’d see a line I don’t want to see.

And yet… I keep coming back to them.

As if I’m trying to draw something that already exists, only I can’t bring myself to look at it all at once.

And there are sharp angles, too. The sentences I didn’t say. The ones I did, and shouldn’t have. Something always cuts there.

It’s strange how I try to explain everything in terms of logic. To find a formula. A rule. An order.

And then something appears that won’t fit any line. Or any angle.

And it ruins everything.

I don’t even know if it has a shape. By the time I try to catch it, I’ve already changed it a little.

Maybe the problem isn’t that it isn’t straight. It’s what I keep pushing it to be.

And every time I think I’ve finally understood something, the line drifts again.

Ever so slightly.

And then suddenly someone. I’m not even sure how it fits into all of this.

Not mine, and yet mine. Small, curled up, without a single line he’s drawn himself.

I look at him, and a point opens in me I didn’t know was there. Or I did, and I was avoiding it.

In him, nothing has been skipped. Nothing set aside. It happens.

And while I hold him, that line in me that keeps drifting — for a moment, stops trying.

There’s a small sadness, too. A thin line that runs underneath it all, the thought of a line that was never drawn in me, and through him, was.

But that line is quiet. The joy is thicker. And both are drawn with the same pencil.

And I think, what if I put the pencil down.

Not to stop existing. Just to stop drawing myself.

To let the line drift where it already drifts. To let the points stay unconnected. To let the angles be sharp if they’re sharp, and the circles imperfect if they’re imperfect.

Maybe the soul isn’t a drawing to be finished. Maybe it isn’t about the drawing at all. Or I just tell myself that, so I can stop.

So I stop. And touch something that hasn’t started trying to straighten itself out. Not yet.