(no subject)
Blog Posts
Kitten in the bedroom, tiger in the library. In defence of love stories about bad love.
One rather believes that death will be quiet, and it is always a shame to have such a pleasant forecast rudely dashed by, for example, the appearance of a ghost.
It all began, or rather ended, when I was contemplating death for the thirtieth time and had successfully jettisoned my flatmates and acquired a stash of pills.
In the moments of contemplation just before shovelling the pills into my mouth, I spotted someone else in the mirror. At first I thought it was one of my flatmates, but was quickly disabused of this idea by the someone being a little under four feet tall and transparent.
I watched them warily for a while, and eventually turned around to see if they were "there" or just a trick in the mirror. They were as there as a four-foot-high transparent ghost can be: indistinct, genderless, child-sized, and still possible to see the bath through.
It didn't say anything, just stood there staring at me with blank, black eyes, until I grew very uncomfortable and threw the pills into the toilet. After that I was relieved of the presence of the ghost, but not its memory.
You might think that this was a positive thing - after all, thanks to that ghost I'm telling you this story instead of being cremated in a municipal hall while three people eat damp sandwiches and cry unconvincingly. But the pain I'm in is worse than ever, and now I'm afraid that if I die I will be stuck like this forever.
So all in all, I am kinda pissed at that ghost.
Kitten in the bedroom, tiger in the library. In defence of love stories about bad love.
One rather believes that death will be quiet, and it is always a shame to have such a pleasant forecast rudely dashed by, for example, the appearance of a ghost.
It all began, or rather ended, when I was contemplating death for the thirtieth time and had successfully jettisoned my flatmates and acquired a stash of pills.
In the moments of contemplation just before shovelling the pills into my mouth, I spotted someone else in the mirror. At first I thought it was one of my flatmates, but was quickly disabused of this idea by the someone being a little under four feet tall and transparent.
I watched them warily for a while, and eventually turned around to see if they were "there" or just a trick in the mirror. They were as there as a four-foot-high transparent ghost can be: indistinct, genderless, child-sized, and still possible to see the bath through.
It didn't say anything, just stood there staring at me with blank, black eyes, until I grew very uncomfortable and threw the pills into the toilet. After that I was relieved of the presence of the ghost, but not its memory.
You might think that this was a positive thing - after all, thanks to that ghost I'm telling you this story instead of being cremated in a municipal hall while three people eat damp sandwiches and cry unconvincingly. But the pain I'm in is worse than ever, and now I'm afraid that if I die I will be stuck like this forever.
So all in all, I am kinda pissed at that ghost.