I do not often imagine the soul as a machine, but a good metaphor expands the imagination.
Quote: This was when Geryon liked to plan / his autobiography, in that blurred state / between awake and asleep when too many intake valves are open in the soul. / Like the terrestrial crust of the earth / which is proportionally ten times thinner than an eggshell, the skin of the soul / is a miracle of mutual pressures.
— Anne Carson, Autobiography of Red: A Novel in Verse
Inspired figurative language hooks the reader’s imagination with a specific image, which in turn hauls in scores of images that haul in schools of images that flip and flick their tails until words and images become a shiny liquid poured down the intake valves of the soul.
Over time, pressure builds.
For some of us, writing is an exhaust valve of the soul.
For the rest … well, you tell me.