(no subject)
I've been dreaming of ghosts lately. Seeing them out of the corner of my eye late at night and sometimes early in the morning, while I sit, drink my decaf and smoke my first cigarette. (I can't take caffiene anymore, it gives me major insomnia.)
So I see a shadow, or a little gust like the curtain blowing in. Sometimes I hear footsteps, or a whisper.
For those who scoff, I must say that I believe in ghosts. I've seen, heard and smelled too many of them to not believe. They play with my glasses. They put them in places I wouldn't even dream of putting them (like a top shelf or inside my closet). One ghost likes to smoke on my balcony. He's been doing that since we lived in Manila. Mom thinks he followed me here.
On my grandmother's death anniversary our house sometimes smells like roses. My sister sees her standing in doorways or in mirrors, wearing her favorite black shawl that my mother inherited. On November the firsts, my mother lights candles to keep ghosts away.
Still, they tend to knock.
The only thing I really hate about ghosts is when they talk. It's always sad or angry--as if you exist beyond death only in rage or loneliness. I am most frigtened when they say my name, especially when it's part of a cacophany--like there's a crowd surrounding you and they are egging you on. Roseroseroserose
And once, faintly, it will be better
Most nights I bring Lester out to the gate and wait for him to get a cab before I go back inside. I end up running, looking at my feet.
They like to run too, and dart between the trees.
So I'm alone now. I hope nobody decides to be chatty.
So I see a shadow, or a little gust like the curtain blowing in. Sometimes I hear footsteps, or a whisper.
For those who scoff, I must say that I believe in ghosts. I've seen, heard and smelled too many of them to not believe. They play with my glasses. They put them in places I wouldn't even dream of putting them (like a top shelf or inside my closet). One ghost likes to smoke on my balcony. He's been doing that since we lived in Manila. Mom thinks he followed me here.
On my grandmother's death anniversary our house sometimes smells like roses. My sister sees her standing in doorways or in mirrors, wearing her favorite black shawl that my mother inherited. On November the firsts, my mother lights candles to keep ghosts away.
Still, they tend to knock.
The only thing I really hate about ghosts is when they talk. It's always sad or angry--as if you exist beyond death only in rage or loneliness. I am most frigtened when they say my name, especially when it's part of a cacophany--like there's a crowd surrounding you and they are egging you on. Roseroseroserose
And once, faintly, it will be better
Most nights I bring Lester out to the gate and wait for him to get a cab before I go back inside. I end up running, looking at my feet.
They like to run too, and dart between the trees.
So I'm alone now. I hope nobody decides to be chatty.