Posts Tagged Ghosts
The morning shadows have a new shape, and the cacophony of the birds has started again. Foreshadows of hope, it’s on the way, and I refuse to stop, to ask why because I know this little buzz, this hope-thing being on the way is a silly artifice made of tissues.
The winter sun has frightened me for so many countless months, causing guilty pleasure and pride with the trinkets from my endurance, still wondering what kind of animal I might be. Not all of the people see the monsters in the shadows, crawling longingly on the bright winter days. The monsters are ghosts, or spirits, and they’re not interested in being seen as they are far too busy singeing the raw nerves of the fragile psyches (ones such as mine), which make us little, gangly, spider-like animals too timid to go out, lest we be smashed by the semi-trailer which has been dislodged and has flown perfectly to land centered on our little plastic cars.
But today, I’ll drive slowly in the little residential neighborhoods, not for fear of being trashed by the trailer but for fear of smashing any heavy wall, smoothly and head-on. My car window is down by about 2 inches and confidence in my spirit grows with the crisply testy, cool breeze. I will feel comfortable for I will be familiar with almost all of the people, and some of them are as nice as a human can be. I need my meeting, my medicine.
It’s this backdrop that causes surprise upon reflection. What is it buried so deeply that made me break down in complete despair, sobbing like an uncontrollable fruit fly?
I was zooming down the road in a nonchalant style, reclining a bit too much, listening to fantastic music, on my way to do something important. Really, it wasn’t zooming. In a calm soothing crash in slow motion, not a car crash, a cluster of ghosts caught me from behind. I don’t know where they came from, but it was as if they were always right there and decided to become present. I couldn’t see them, but I knew they were there. I could feel the dungeon I lived in not so long ago. I felt that torture, and these ghosts were more severe than the actual torture.
The houses in this part of town need new siding. Some of these houses are fifty years old, and it seems as though they are all white or dirty white along with occasional piss yellow. I thought of all the defects with my house, and I contemplated with a seriously objective but cold perspective how bad I am at maintaining my house.
The ghosts stuck with me. Their only purpose was to cause my mood to plunge rapidly. Did they want me to crash into the brick wall around the drug store? The road was rough, and the ghosts helped it stir me to an overwhelming nausea. I stared at a slow and beaten Toyota with rust slithering all around a sickening white telling us that it wanted to fall apart. The Toyota reminded me that I was on an important mission, and in a highly unusual move, I held on to the wheel with both hands and tightly, like a wacky old lady who should not be driving. Those ghosts, the dilapidated shutters, the withering siding, and dark, stiff, deep cracks on the road all sifted underground in a place where I could not pay attention to them, and I decided to breathe deeply. With a newly peaceful mind, I wanted to sleep and not crash the car. With deep exhales, the ghosts stayed underground.