Garbled thoughts

Nights like these, I wonder if people given to thought fear for their souls—not  because of some hell looming in a preacher’s maw, or any of its tragic, dogmatic brothers and sisters. No, I’m worried about my one-in-a-million being because it’s sitting with a hurricane of bodies at the bottom of a coffee cup, and the forms surrounding it are alien. They’re unique, special and everything else mocked as a feel-good phrase by bitter voices under the sun. They’re souls, all just as important as the half-dead huddle that mine’s become, nestled in the storm. Every mind is worlds apart, and each being is beautiful beyond compare in its own right, and so I can’t help but wonder why so many of us are looking into the same abyss. We’re all different, but I suppose the joy and pain we share’s what brings us together, what lets us appreciate each other. That, and peculiarly long nights of the soul.