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Member
Join Date: Feb 2008
Location: I am an ex pat English woman living in France.
Gender: Female
Posts: 9
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Just wanted a bit of feedback
You hold no terrors for me, life, like the terror of living. How often have I questioned the hauntings that hold my mind paralyzed in a moment of time ? How often have I seen the ghosts that I once believed were clothed in white veils of translucence that played games with the mind of he who gazed upon their demi-form ? How often did I see the rocking chair move or the hairs stand up on the back of the dogs head, aching for his master who has left us and gone to the nether world of darkness. How often have I wondered about the bumps in the night that turn the darkness into a solid oppression that bends the soul in cowardice to hide beneath the sheets ?
How often have I seen the fullness of the moon, or the shadows dancing within the leaves of the trees and heard murmurs of voices from distant days and laid in darkness afraid ? How often have I wished within the circle of the magic mushrooms, and felt the presence of someone lurking within the reach of my touch though distanced from my eyes ?
On a cold October night, when the stars are obscured from view, and the wind whistles down the chimney and across the roof tiles, I lay in the darkness of my own soul, occasionally catching the glimpse of white ghostly apparitions that cloud the face of the moon with their hauntings. The wind silences itself to a dreadful calm, as if waiting in anticipation for some dreaded moment, that moment of haunting that touches the soul with a chill that seeps down the spine, reminding me of the fragility of human weakness.
Thoughts rush through my mind at a pace. I see the faces of children though they stand still, silenced only by memory or the obliteration of such movement that makes them real. Faces from the past form within my sleepless half dreamlike state. My father, he smiles, as if accepting his fate better than I ever could. My mother whose stillness disturbs me. A crackle in the half dead fire scares me back to the reality of night, though my mother's face is still there, almost threateningly real, almost admonishing me for even thinking of her spirit, her thoughts, her life, a ghostly presence that takes me back through the ages of my life to childhood, and a loneliness that penetrates the darkness and pierces the soul with its' harpoons of reality.
I close my eyes against the faces, though beneath my eyelids, those ghosts still appear, some mocking me in my distortion of memory, some laughing, some accusing, some just there but inanimate, as if stuck in time, waiting for my recognition of the part they played within my life, unable to move on until I let them. Mother grimaces. Father smiles, his face grey with age, Kayleigh is stuck in a moment of smiling though her eyes are empty of emotion because it's safer that way. Never lived, never died, merely existed and now haunts me in my nights as if taunting me to remember, to accept her passing, to feel those emotions that I dare not behold for fear that they are too painful, too real, and knowing that the crying of the soul is the only way forward, though refusing it its' need to wail and drain from within me.
The moon sits in harmony with the darkness, the only light within the sky. The leaves rustle. The fire is silenced now, as the last embers disappear into darkness, their life's blood drained and gone, replaced by an odour of past, of having been but of being no more, just like the ghosts within my nights, that come and go, that dance and admonish, that accuse or accept. Oh yes, they are real. Never doubt their reality as the doubt of their existence makes them very angry visions within the mind of he who tries to deny that they are real and part of the growing process, the acceptance, the moving forward of human dignity and are memorials of those who have left our lives.
Ghosts that haunt our thoughts, ghosts that jump out on us in the darkest night, and remind us of our weakness, our failure to accept the truth, that they are there, that without them being there, life's meaning would be obscured and questionable.
Ghosts are waiting for your darkest hours. Greet them, embrace them, let them be happy spirits by your acceptance of them. No veils of white translucence though veils of memory, no chains that shackle them other than non acceptance of their having passed. No spooky cries, no noise other than the last whistle of wind that caresses the roof tiles, and sends me to a place where I can escape them, into the land of sleep.
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