Sometimes I stop. Just because. But then I start again and, on occasion, am prompted to wonder if my subconscious is smarter than I am, and if the reason I had stopped was actually because it would have done me a world of good if I had just let myself in on that mystery so I could continue stopping.
I had a terrible attack of nostalgia last night and could not sleep for thinking about all the places that are not my home anymore or that are cut out of my life for various reasons and that I will never have at my disposal again to sit or wander or live in.
If I were a ghost, I would go back and haunt them all, but I’m too corporeal.
And then there are other, more vaporous ghosts that aren’t and that still insist on ruining my undeath as much as they can when they get a chance…those ghosts that excused themselves from helping me, saying ‘darling, I am dead. I know what it’s like and it’s too bad, but it happens to the best of us.’
And you. There’s you, too, who have to make it all worse by sneaking up and clasping my metaphorical hand and reminding me that you did likewise when I was dying. And I keep thinking that I stopped, but between being rung up and then having my hand taken up through my ears when it is over…it’s like the dying process never stops. It’s never that simple, is it?
Not that I didn’t appreciate your offering of solace. It was good to have that when it was really bad. It was good to have the illusion of an embrace after so much cold and so little air and…so many little hurts that just kept adding. But I confess I don’t feel the same now. I keep trying to forget that I am dead and to act like I am alive (ah, I see where this is going…how clever of you), but you keep just catching me and holding onto me for a moment so you can remind me that I am dead and then pretend to send me on my merry way (although you make quite sure that it would be anything but).
How my mind plays tricks on me.
I would leave off these things that make me feel this way, but I can’t. For a few reasons. One is that I would miss you. Another is that it’s not your fault that I feel this way. A third is that you are points by which I can identify myself and I need my reference points.
The worst and probably strongest reason is that there is something wrong with me and there has been for some time. I like to feel like I am dying. I like to feel that way sometimes, and to rip off layers and layers of protective forgetfulness so that I will bleed memories until I can scarce catch my breath. It hurts so exquisitely…yet I’ve only ever met one other person who confessed to doing it.
There must be others though.
I’ve thought about you all a great deal, and come to the conclusion that most of you have expressed that you are dying, or that you feel this way and choose to say it in different words. It makes me sad for all of us, this knowing that we are all dying from something or another…
I wish I could be like my ghosts and hold your hands through it so it would be easier on you, and reassure you that it happens to the best of us.
If you needed it, I promise I would let go when you are dead. I won’t drag you into dark corners to remind you of it and ‘have a nice day!’ you. I would not.