Soul

I am the sole inhabitant of my life;
my home is an extension of my self,
and echoes with emptiness,
the deep dripping cave
behind other people's voices.

Proposition: solipsism
is neither inherently
nor obviously false. If my
soul is the sole soul
in all of existence
this does not automatically entail
the following:
that no one else exists
(because you are all me
divvied up into parts),
that nothing unexpected can ever happen
(because the mind is not wholly
transparent, even to its inhabitant),
that the material world does not exist
(because the mind is matter,
the mind can certainly muck about
with matter and the material world,
make mind into muck and clay, make
muck and clay into trees and bridges
and people),
that nothing is real
(for I am real and my
creations are real,
really painful),
that nothing exists
(for I exist and my
creations exist,
even if they exist only
to ignore or hate me),
that nothing can be known
(for I can get to know myself
my creations, my soul),
that nothing can be communicated
(for I always talk to myself,
always have)
that the distinction between self
and not-self is arbitrary
(for even in my solitary
existence I am only immediately
conscious of part of my soul),
that laws of nature are violable
(for I am the kind of mind
who prefers some order
at least sometimes,
and if I am Sol
then the planets I create
must orbit me),
that nothing matters
(for it matters to me whether
I am in pain or unmixed pleasure).

Having a serious go at solipsism
while my soul is kept in solitary confinement,
though I never made clear to me my crime
nor the length of my self-same sentencing;
solely I play these soul games with myself.