Two pieces, one soul

He promised himself, long ago, that he would only take the bare minimum of what he needed. He would not, could not, and deplored the idea of taking more than was necessary to survive. For the vast majority of his existence, he stood by this principle, leaching only enough from the few he cared to bleed so as to survive. It worked for all involved . . . he was whole, and they were, well, mostly the same. Then she came along and all control was lost.


At what point does the consumption of ones soul become disastrous? When is the breaking point crossed, with no hope of return? Is it the moment where you look in the mirror and see a reflection that you can no longer comprehend, understand, or look at? Is it then, where the you, the one you nourished, babied, and built from the ground up, in shambles, for good? Is that a negative, or the necessary evolution of a flawed species? Should I worry that I do not see myself absent her?