Soul sister

When I feel a blog approaching, I get this feeling in my body (can't quite pinpoint where it originates yet, but I'm working on it. Somewhere under my ribcage, I think) of a (blue, weirdly) bubble of words, quite distinct and discrete, that splatters itself onto the keyboard quite forcefully in a lump of me-ness. Sounds gross, doesn't it? But it's a purge of whatever is blackening my soul at the time. Useful. Like a furball except I don't make those faces that cats do.

Do you suppose that whenever you do something that your conscience objects to, which you feel is morally wrong, or at least dubious, that your soul contorts and twists out of shape? You start off with a pristine white ball of glowing purity and by the time you are ten or so, it is grubby and dented from wheedling extra sweeties from your mum or staying up later than you should. By the time you are twenty it is flattened and dark with sooty stains. Remember that promise you broke, that friend you let down? Surely at my advanced age my soul must be a twisted black thing hissing with rememberances of tramps ignored, dates stood up, harsh words, money still owed. If the world were filled with peace-loving tolerant, well-fed folk
would my soul carry less collateral damage? Is it my actions alone that cause the injury, or the comparison between my actions and those of others. Is morality therefore a relative thing? And relative to what? Who judges what we are measured against? And can you re-whiten your soul or do the stains remain forever?