ghost

this is a story inspired by the thought, "what is it like to be a ghost that haunts a place. what if you are one of those ghosts who is not angry and just appears now and then. what would it be like for them?"

so here it is-- the ghost. i hope you enjoy.



October 31st 2001

I figured out how to use a pen today. Well I know how to use a pen; the trick was in learning how to hold it. Upright. Solid, ok, maybe not that solid. It slides around a lot. My letters are big and squiggly. Like a child.

Listen to me. How I ramble. I can actually move something. I. Me. Can move a physical object. I can do it. Here’s my proof. This writing. It is hard to write all this. I am tired already. But I am too excited to stop now. I may ramble but I ramble with joy. For it is my ramble. My first honest ramble in so long it hurts. I would say physically hurts but that is quite impossible. I cannot hurt and that is why it is such a joy to write and to feel tired even though I do not really feel tired any more than I hurt.

Still I ramble. I feel I am destined to ramble. Every time I want to write something purposeful I ramble. Always have. What a silly statement, another! I don’t know whether I have always rambled. I just feel like I have. Never thought on it before, had no reason.

Oh dear the pen is falling. It is too much for me. I must go. I will return. I must. I can write. I can be heard. I can be.

September 2nd 2001

I am back. And I can hold the pen better. My letters are still big and wobbly but I no longer have loops on odd letters and curious zigs. Why, I say I’m writing at least as well as your average doctor.

Ha ha. I made a joke. I think it is funny but I only know it, I don’t feel it. I must say I am very glad that the people who were here before me were so kind as to leave this notebook and my dear blue Bic pen.

I never in my life thought I would so treasure a blue Bic pen so. But I do.

I just realized that I said "never in my life." Why must it be so hard. So hard to think about it. Despite the fact that I have had nothing but time. I sit and stand and lay about and think a lot. But I still don’t want to think on it. I suppose it should be natural but that would imply my situation was in the least natural.

I wish looking in the mirror resulted in even the least favorable results.


September 10th 2001

Sorry I was away so long. My last entry was not so fun. It brought up bad memories. I suppose I shall have to deal with them at some point but I don’t know when that shall be. For now I am content to not think about them at all.

I spent all of today lying on the grass staring at the sky. I am not sure why. It is not like I see much. There is some grey. Over on that side is some darker grey. At my feet I think may be a cloud as I am not sure what else it could be.

I see no color in the sky. I am not certain I can. See color I mean. There isn’t any anywhere. It is all so– gone. Empty. Not dead so much as barren, sanitized. Like God just decided he wanted to repaint everything and wiped it clear with a rag.

I used to love black and white movies. I thought they were great and poignant. I would sit and watch and weep. Citizen Kane was my favorite. I was never a big fan of Casablanca. My friend would gasp to hear it but it’s true. I found it to be... not my kind of movie. I nearly fell asleep the first time.

There I go again. Talking of bad memories. I need to not do that. This is my diary now,and the soon to be and the hope to be’s. I refuse to talk about bad things.

Besides I have my blue Bic with me. I love blue so I am happy to write in blue.

I just realized I don’t know what color my pen really is. I assumed it was blue. I just saw it and I knew. But I don’t know. I haven’t seen it, the color, I just assumed it was blue. But I can’t see color. How do I know this pen is blue? I don’t but I do. I am so confused.

How do I know my pen is blue?