River of souls

No one knows where it starts or where it ends, a ceaseless process going on for eternity. From when light was called upon the earth till the when sun eats up every life form, the red river spews and engulfs souls.

From the fjords in Iceland to the rainforest of the Amazon, the damask river belches the innocent and refined souls, like a random pick from a shuffle of cards the souls are sent to a destination. The soul never choses the destination, no difference in possessing the body of a monarch prince or the body of a girl in a family in penury or the body of the deformed.

The body is only ephemeral, a gift of blood, bone and genes from the custodians of each soul because man was sent forth to multiply the earth. The looks, ways, orientation, abilities, circumstance and origin are passed on by the custodians but each soul is eccentrically unique, different from the soul of a mother or the soul of a brother.

The creator of souls administers judgement for a life well spent or a life ill spent. The river runs on different shades of red from surface to bottom with your deed on earth influencing the tier occupied for the surface is as cool as a summer evening breeze and the deepest recesses as hot as the flame of a blacksmith.

The wicked are engulfed to the deepest trenches where the river boils crimson red. A place of anguish and piercing screams, a place of retribution and atonement with the souls in inexplicable torment because like the fire to heat the finest gold the wicked are refined to merit another chance. Just as a pin prick is detected in the head and not on the skin, for if the skin is present but the nerves are dead, pain is absent because pain is never of the body but of the soul.

The kind are massaged with the soothing waters of the surface of the river where the red is damask and the sounds of satisfaction flow gently with the current creating a blissful ambience with all the travails of earth happily forgotten.

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