I’m tempted to know the truth.
The truth about life. Our point of being. If we really have souls within us. If we are simply blood, brain and bones. Whether or not there is another life when this one is over. Or another life being lived parallel to this life now. Or a life lived even before this one.
The other day I was thinking about my soul. How I do believe there is one inside of all of us, a spirit, a something. And how I have heard I am an old soul, or at least one that has been around before, which I happen to agree with when taking time to analyze myself. I also think about my sister. My older sister who seems to be a newborn soul. One that is living one of its first lives. So innocent and sweet. So naive. So different from me.
And then there is my reaction. Not excited nor intrigued to know or dream of what lives I could have already lived. Or people I have been. Or places I have already seen. Instead I just got jealous? Angry? I was jealous to think other people had owned my soul. My spirit had been their spirit at some point in history. I’ve shared it with other lives, other bodies.
And all of sudden. I felt unimportant.
We The Tempted 