I would like to be a stranger, nameless, for this sinful world, not to owe service and repayment, and all other people's needs to sleep, to be like a dream—for a moment at least, to hear only my longings, and the wind to carry away the people...the mad chatters. Let there be only my silence, and the sunrise be mine alone, and let no man judge or reckon, what I gave, and to whom... I would like to be a stranger, not to owe smiles and tears. Because, in fact, it's only the soul— one really owes...
# Debt To The Soul I owe a debt to the soul— that wordless thing that haunts the corridors of my chest, asking questions in the dark. What payment could settle it? Gold melts. Words scatter like ash. Even devotion, that bright coin, loses its gleam in the counting. The soul keeps its ledger in a language I'm still learning— each silence a digit, each hunger a sum. I've tried to pay with action, with the small heroisms of living, with kindness pressed into palms like seeds hoping to grow. But the debt only deepens, compounds in the night hours when I lie awake, tallying all the ways I've fallen short. Perhaps the soul doesn't want payment. Perhaps it wants only to be acknowledged— this creditor who walks beside me, asking not for settlement but for witness, for the courage to say: *Yes, I am indebted. Yes, I am alive.*
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