A Not Regular Blog: This Is a Ghost Story

I have a ghost story to tell. I wonder though, does it a count as a ghost story if the ghost hasn't gone away? I guess it doesn't matter. This ghost sure is a bugger, because I haven't rid myself of it for years. It's not your regular haunt, but I've tried everything from Haint Paint to praying it away. Well that color blue looks no good on me and the pastor says the Lord allows trials for you to learn something and glorify His name. I must be really glorifying or really ignoring this lesson. I don't mean to. Anyways, I feel it proper time to tell this story, and I guess it would go like this.

I watched as the sun slipped above the horizon. I saw every moment as it spilt in through every crack and crevice, flushing out the dark that was perched there just minutes before. What kept me up all night to greet the day this time? It's hard to determine anymore, my night bleeds into day so often. The ghost leaves at this first light, it's my only time to rest. I close my eyes for an hour or two. Then a tap on the shoulder wakes me up. The ghost has given up on the "boo" trick. It doesn't work any more. The tap on the shoulder is much more effective. It's not frightening, just dread filled.

I breathe in grief and quickly puff out as much as I can in frustration. I don't like its taste anymore than the day when the feeling rolled in, and I wish that the cloud would stop lingering around me. I am an experienced weatherman by now. I forecast, with the silent but constant turbulence, I will be probably be shrouded in it for a little longer. "Or even a little longer than that." I'll wash my face to help me move my focus away from the thunder, I don't have any other choice. "Don't forget and you are running late." The ghost takes advantage of every mistake.

Unfortunately for my perfectionist nature, I like some mistakes. Is it okay to feel like this? So conflicted, a war of emotions is a calm day, and, yet, I am comforted by the idea of change. In fact I need it. I ask myself if all of this is caused by a soft whisper across the stars? Definitely not the same whisper as the ghost. I think. But some sort of destiny it would be, and I suppose a true faith-filled person would believe it to be true. I'd like to think my desires are at the mercy of the higher calling. Maybe my emotions will fall in line with that too. It is a comfort to hear the movement, the direction, even though I don't understand. Grief could turn in to peace and passion at the will of this murmur. Some would call it self-sabotage, but my heart knew the call like the voice of old friend. That doesn't rule out self-sabotage. No matter. Even if it is self inflicted or the will of something else, the ghost can and will always come back.

When I was a child, I remember the same feeling. The desire to ride the wind, right over the ridge and away, not for any particular reason. Just for the reason, the need, of adventure. Maybe the word isn't adventure, but the way adventure feels. It is completely opposite from the word I am drowning in now: mundane. So adventure, but more likely the word is escape. I ached for it and to feel something other than water in my lungs and slipping through my fingers. For the flighty, this is not an unusual sense of urgency. I guess that may have been the time in my life the ghost first arrived.

I am much older now, but I still feel that child inside me. She likes to drive, but the road is broken going into this old town. It definitely has lost its luster. I know it will come back like the spring, most of the time it does. Maybe I will still be here to see it. And maybe if the the younger version of me would stop playing with the ghost, I'd be able to stay and enjoy where I am at. "Yet, the mountains sound nice."

I do love this town though. I do love those people. I do love this life. I am always appreciative of the moments when life is still and beautiful; I can't be blind or selfish; even now I have those miracles. "But time sure is crawling." I fight to fill myself up with life for another day. How am I supposed to beat the life back into this town too?

The horns are loud and obnoxious but the ghost's voice can drown out anything. It breaks my heart when the ghost quietly asks me in the back of my head: "How long had love and life been like a dying ember?" Too long, I guess, but I'd been afraid to touch the dying flame. It's hard to talk the fire out of those kinds of burns. A hopeless romantic is never at loss for forgiveness, but always overflowing with heartache. The ghost encourages me sometimes, "You should stay, this is fixable. You should be trying harder." But now, that isn't very uplifting. Now it's another whisper: "You let this fire die out? It's your fault, isn't it?" The questions always hit the mark, very thought provoking in absolutely the worst way possible. And the ghost stands in every mirror I look in and points back at me. Gaslighted by the figure, but I figure it will always send a shiver down my back.

Perhaps in the morning, I will wake with the miracle of new day instead of watching it flood through my broken blinds. My rested eyes will have been adorned with rose colored glasses. I'll be able to see this situation in the new light and wonder will wash over me again. "That reminds me of another thing you need to do." "Okay, Ghost, will you make a reminder to set up an eye doctor appointment." The to-do list grows and time slows almost unbearably. "Yet there is no time to get anything done at all."

Surely to goodness, a ghost has been dancing between me and everyone for so long, the specter and I should know each other by name. I wonder if that ghost is the memory of my pure love and childlike amazement or the memory of me. That's the same thing, I'd reckon. The people around me should have forgotten by now. Why? Because isolation is heartless but all we can manage. And that's all ghosts are: memories. Maybe that's why I am the only one who sees; I am the only one who can remember. Perhaps it's just I am the only one who cares.

"Ghost, that hurts me."

"I know, but don't we think it's true?"

"Yes, unfortunately."

What did I take to make these ghost whispers stop before? "Haint paint and pray." Let's try that again.

---

This is a poetic reflection on mental illness that I wrote during a really dark time last year. I don't know what else to say about this, I like southern gothic.

Anyways I kind of like this "Not a Regular Blog" idea. It gives me room to share creative writing. I think I will continue to try this out.