my life as a ghost

a spirit.  I don’t live anywhere.  don’t unpack boxes. don’t leave friends. I just appear for those who need love and understanding for awhile.  but these days, people don’t need love and understanding for any substantial period of time. certainly don’t need to be haunted by a ghost on a daily basis.

I thought that knowledge and talent would make people like me.  apparently these things just slid right through me, because I’m empty – or, non-substantial, as the metaphor demands.
always looking in the window.  the hearth. hand holding. bric-a-brac: the consummate joy of non-plasma people.

if it were funny, I’d be laughing.  if it were clever, more people would be ghosts.  but they all have lives. they value things.  but I can’t pick up things.  I value love only. that transient thing.  does it just seem transient to me?  am I paying attention to the wrong thing?  it’s that deep blue thing, on the left, isn’t it?  it’s not the blob of antique white in the center, surely? does it mutate, blend in? or do people just not want to hold onto it?  just so personal, intimate.  chafes the individuality.

the only disadvantage is that ghosts can’t die.  they are remanded to the enclosures of the earth, in their ghostly bodies, until such time as they let go of the ones they loved, who couldn’t come along with them.

please leave the window open sometimes. and your heart open sometimes.

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