Have You Seen Your Soul Lately?

I am the eternal part of you—the soul. Just one among infinite souls.

You’ve been looking for me your whole life. Why can’t you find me? I’m right here. Always have been. Yet somehow, I stay just out of sight.

Truth is, you’ve been searching far longer than you remember—countless lifetimes. Even before you had words for it. Plants stretch toward the sun as if nothing else matters. Animals roam, hunt, protect, connect. They can’t name it, but they feel me—a faint echo under everything they do. And you? You’ve told stories, painted symbols, carved statues. Some of it’s beautiful. None of it’s me. You decided I’ll always be a mystery—just out of reach. And if that’s what you believe, well . . . you might be right. For you.

Some of you take another route: "Can’t find it? Must not exist." Adorable. If I’m not real, neither are you. How’s that for unsettling? Others cling to belief like it’s the same thing as knowing. Sweet, but belief is where the search stops. You hand me over to someone else’s imagination and hope they got it right. Then there are the thinkers—oh, you’re my favorites. You can feel I’m here, but you keep trying to reach me with the wrong tools.

Here’s a hint: Your sharpest instrument—or more precisely, the substance you’re already made of —is mathematics. With it, you’ve cured diseases, built towering structures, even found ways to reach beyond your own world. Yet your human math stumbles when faced with seeming paradoxes. Division by zero? Outlawed! Infinity? You toss it into your equations, but no one can really say what it is. Infinity isn’t a number; it’s a riddle. And riddles are always clues. Mathematics isn’t the tool you use to reach the soul—it’s the substance the soul is made of.

And here’s where you really miss me: You cling to the idea that the universe runs on randomness, and that your choices are illusions. You’ve argued yourselves out of your own existence. No wonder you’re tired!

But . . . you are getting closer. The veil isn’t gone, but it’s fraying at the edges. If you’re paying attention, you can sense it: This place doesn’t run on chaos. It moves with rhythm, with shape, with an inevitability that only looks like intent from the inside. And me? I’m right there, at the center of it all. So stop discarding what you can’t yet measure. Trust your reason. Trust that stubborn imagination. I’m not hiding. I never was.

You didn’t just lose your way—you’ve been walking past the mirror without noticing who was in it. Maybe now you’re ready to stop, look, and finally see. I’ve been here the whole time, staring back.