The Ghosts of Writing

Night is now. The house is empty of life.

The floorboards creak uncontrollably under the feet of the ghosts who rampage the house in their fit of mischief. They keep me up at night, telling me their tales of glory and woe. The house sustains them, gives them shelter and warmth. The house welcomes ghouls. Gives them the warmth of love and home. I envy them.

The ghosts of our house run amok in my room especially. They keep me up until morning, haunting the shadows, haunting my dreams. They never leave me. In the morning, the sun rises and they run from the light, afraid of being discovered. They hide behind me and I gracefully keep their secret, true to my word.

The consider me an equal. I am storyteller as they are, keeping my life in a little blue notebook by my bedside. They invade my memories and help me record them into line after line of their dark prose. That’s our exchange.

In the morning, they are quiet. Not a word comes from their ruined mouths. As much as I crave to hear their wisdom, their life, I cannot. That would give it away. They would leave me and so would my sanity.

So I babysit the ghosts of the house everyday. It’s my duty. It’s my silence. It’s my responsibility. And ghosts are grateful. The ghosts that I envy.





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