The Ghost

Sometimes I wish I can fade in and out like some sort of ghost. That little phantom that creeps up unexpectedly then disappears into nothing when you thought you were sure you saw something.

That presence that merely is, but doesn't matter. I like being noticed, don't get me wrong, but for some strange reason, I have a hard time being appreciated. It's almost as if I don't like it.

It feels like someone's attachment brings me into existence again, and I try to slip back through the wall the way I came in, but instead I slam into it because I'm suddenly solid. And I have to use a door to leave. And I hate using doors.

I begin to feel trapped, because I'm not who I was anymore. I'm not the mysterious mist that can reason and speak and can disappear and reappear. I'm a person again, with scars and baggage and the fear of using the goddamn door. I have no reason to use the door, other than I know that if I do get out of the room, I get to become a ghost again, which is both cowardly and rude.

I'm not pretending when I say I know how you feel. It's something like this:

Mumford and Sons: White Blank Page

I cried when I heard that song for the first time, because I feel like such an asshole.

Just know, that I'd much rather be in your shoes than in my own.

Mine give me blisters, and I'm not allowed to bitch about it.