Finding a Place

I always seem to end up here, shuffling along the river, soul deep in its waters. I wallow for a while like an old, crusty animal, trying to rid myself of the usual parasites. These pests gasp for air beneath its tides and thick mud. A soul must have a place to go for the caked on grime of life to be washed off. It seems a law written into the DNA of our psyche. For some, sacramental ritual once scrubbed them clean but this has fallen out of favour, hollowed out by hierarchical abuse and an absent God. Others simply ask for a voucher. Nature has always offered its sacred spaces to mend troubled souls. Or there are caves you can carve into the mind where a still resides and encloses a healing peace. Other excavations hold effigies who promise the faithful any number of offerings to soothe the spirit. In the end, you just need a place where you can go, somewhere within a breath, or walking distance, or a mystery only the soul seems to know.