My soul can endure what my mind and body sometimes cannot. I fancy myself a tough guy, born and raised in the Bronx, home of Hip-Hop — Mr. Calvin Kline, Jennifer Lopez, and a few other celebrities who rose to fame and forsook this jungle of concrete, hooligans, and rodents.
Though my flesh is sometimes delicate like roses and my mind is sometimes a pool of poison, my soul remains omnipotent and phenomenal. My soul is a warm, intense light that can leave the coldest heart besotted, melted, and vulnerable. Purity emanates from my otherwise corrupted existence.
My mentor told me that a great writer peppers their work with tiny fragments of their soul. Each word that I speak, write, or cogitate is heavily flavored with my soul. This is why I choose to be meticulous with my words — because every word, every letter epitomizes the most intimate and pure part of me.
I’m a writer who is constantly searching for the right words to tell a compelling story, and the ‘right words’ seldom materialize with ease. The ‘right words’ almost never fancily pirouette on my tongue or in my head. And if they ever do, I wonder how much of my soul can my readers taste.
It’s my job as a writer to make my soul comprehensible and tangible to my audience. My soul is tougher than my fragile body and a warm stream of restorative water to my mind’s pool of poison. My soul is intricate in the most beautiful ways imaginable; therefore, my writing must mirror that beauty.