Of all my innocuous decisions and silly whims, I think wallowing was my personal and ridiculous favorite. I think forcing myself to feel sad and lay in bed and listen to pretty little songs can convince me enough that there is something going on inside me. Something greater than anger or greed or something more profound, I think. It all makes sense, this nonsense, why I always get myself tangled in some raveled affairs. If it doesn't make me feel nothing, it makes me feel angry. And if not angry, then it makes me feel greedy. And if not greedy, then I feel something more profound, I think. And if not something more profound, then nothing. Nothing at all. All over again. Affairs are the funniest things. They're clever really. They become some unspoken and unknown section in your seemingly complete life. They're affairs after all. Kept hidden is best possible. But you make noises, you know. Buried under blankets and pillows that aren't yours. And noises are sounds that may or may not be heard. But they're still sounds. Which means someone always knows. Always.
There's one beaming flaw as a participant in some of my then affairs. I tend to find myself giving in and breaking apart. That one beaming flaw was that same personal favorite. The more I try to make sense of it, of any of it, and the more I try to win, the more I get sucked into these whirling messes. Even the residual taste of it all... sometimes I get wrapped up in that same fantasy. I don't know why. For things that no longer exist inside me or around me, I have quite the knack for transforming it back to its awful tangibility.
You are all ghosts to me. Haunting me. Finding me when I'm lost then taking me away into your darkness estranged from whatever I consider my reality. You don't have to be real, or present, or any longer existing. The fainter you are, the more I try to remember and place myself in the same shoes. The same worn out shoes that I should have thrown away, but instead hid under my bed.
You are all ghosts to me.
