My soul would be an outlaw. I can do nothing with it.
The coward body my soul inhabits has pleaded with the renegade, has cried for pity, has implored the pistolero, my soul, to live safely, to observe quietly, to live in peace, with a degree of contentment.
My soul curses like the guttersnipe it is, and hurls another Molotov cocktail at my complacency. So I am doomed. My soul will be an outlaw. It will be Zorro, dressed in black, carving its initials in the sane and rational. It will be Jean Lafitte, stalking through the Louisiana swamps of my days and nights, prepared to defend my cringing, cowardly self from the invaders called compromise. It will be a coocoo Charlie Chaplin, hurling a pie at whatever it takes to live quietly, sensibly, safely.
And here am I, trapped in the body with this dangerous, feral outlaw, who seems determined to alienate, to upset, to annoy, to harass and chivy and unsettle me.
I lust for the day when soul transplants come to be.