Soul and Body

The crash is heard; metal against metal against glass. A gasp. A scream. And the horrid sight of blood. It mixes with the tears of your mourners. Running down the street gutters, it mixes with the pollen and the newly laid bits of tar that lie there in silence. A concoction is made that fishes drink to live forever. Unlike you. Your body is a mangled mess. Hair strewn. Flesh ripped from bone. You can't even recognize yourself. You decide that it's not you, it was never you, because, well, you can't die. You're rejection of reality leaves you empty and washed away, a meaningless spirit. You're dead. You're not dead in your mind. But the world mourns your loss anyways. You walk away without identity, because, of course, you were never that person that's now bleeding by your moving feet. And you are pure again, but only to yourself. You're not the same person so you haven't made any improvements, you're remembered by those bystanders as who you were, not who you are. But that's not you. Or so you proclaim loudly in your mind. With the deepest regret you walk down the street and you mean nothing to no-one; you've never existed till now; you're new and broken. Just like before. And already the relapse begins because you're so lost as to how to be born.