Ghosts in the Walls

I’ve started to write this blog twice. Each time, it’s come out wrong. Let’s see if I can get it right this time.

There are ghosts in the walls. Of course, the walls are metaphorical and the ghosts are not literal. But all the same, they are there. These things exist. Memories and habits, quirks and bits of the past, mulling around making noise.

Like any proper ghost, you can’t see these things. They manifest themselves in snatches of quivering reality, a slight chill or a familiar smell. Just enough truth to rule out the lie.

What do you do with your ghosts? Your lesser moments? Your ever-present haunting? It doesn’t matter if these things are pleasant or not; they are, without exception, always there. No person is the sum of his/her past. It’s merely a part in a larger parcel. A piece.

But sometimes, these things wail. They scratch at the things that bind them into silence. They bloody well throw a fit and struggle to get out. What then?

I can’t pretend to know. It just strikes me, lately, at how many different kinds of ghosts there are. Bits of old friendships strutting about. Lines torn from conversations long since silenced. These things remain, even when we squeeze our eyes shut and pretend they are not there. That we do not believe in them.

It doesn’t matter if you believe in them. Certainly, they believe in you.