The Breathing of Souls
In the walls of buildings, between the splinters of wood and the specks of brick dust, souls trapped by the circumstance of material change, huddle and stretch by turns; making space to breathe, wearing down the solid things that keep them there, and waiting for their time to come.
When it does and when, in the physical world liquids harden and become unyielding; in the metaphysical, the warp and weft of buildings begins to soften, loosening its grip and making room for the imminent exchange. Then, breath becomes an instrument of penetration, and the souls sigh like sea fog through the cracks and into the spaces of the living.
If you are there and you breathe in, they will slip through this open door to make their place under your fresh, warm skin. You may hear them whispering in your head, feel their fluttering in your chest. But it won’t last; they do not share so with the next breath – a cough or a sneeze perhaps – you will be expelled into the vacuum between existences. Left to drift until you find your place in the cracks and fissures they vacated. Then the walls will close again, until the next time.
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