Oh, you silly ghosties. Why can't you leave me be? You make me slightly miserable and you weigh down everything I love with your ecto-plasm of emotional importance. I know that I've got baggage, but that doesn't mean that you need to pursue me with such gusto.Yes, there are photo albums in the basement and detritus of whole lives lived before me. There are shoes that belonged to smaller boys and highchairs that heard laughter of a happy family that is not together in quite the same way anymore.
There are Christmas cards and plastic Easter eggs with petrified candy inside and Halloween
decorations littered in closets and on shelves with dust of years. There are nude paintings and pastel drawings and intimate family portraits of my partner drawn by another woman's hand. But, ghosties, look at the DUST! There are layers of it. That was so long ago. So, why do you have to lay your cold hand on my heart?All that detritus created everything I love - as it is today. It is not coming to destroy it. No matter what you try to whisper in your lying voice. I reject the weight of you and your sticky fingers, ghosties. You are not real. You are not real. You are not real.
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2 comments:
I have no idea what your Ghosties post is about in context, really, but it is facinating and direct none the less. i fight away the detritus also, with a small invisible armies of goodwill volunteers and psycho-emotional strategies. i revel and loathe it. history is a strange bedfellow, my girls are both of the ilk of a love that is not now relevent or necessary or the best expression of my self, so their histories have strange forks and they have a sprawled ecclectic sense of family. A friend said to me onCe it is not sad if you leave a love or are left, and no longer see each other, because each lover prepare's you for the next. It amazes me that we are not fixed beings, that when you love someone you become them to some extent and when they are gone from the time you exist in, you are a little bit them still. all the subtle influences. i suppose untill you are the best applicable combination of yourself and then you stay, get married or are sated.
jasmine
Thank you,Jasmine.
History is indeed a strange bedfellow. I am always striving to appreciate the road that brought me to exactly where I am, but sometimes that road feels haunted in an Ichabod Crane and the Headless Horseman kind of way.
For me, it is a struggle to trust the sated happiness. I am constantly poised for flight... and my struggles with my ghosties are my insecurities made into half-real things when they (probably) are in my own imagination.
xx
t
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