The Ghost Room

There is a Ghost Room in my head. It is small and unappealing to me, but it seems that ghosts find the tiny place quite cozy. Over the years, some ghosts have moved out, and one or two I have managed to evict, throwing their meager ghost-possessions out onto the thoroughfares of my mind.

I try to clean it up, remodel the space between residents. I'm not really sure if I'm trying to attract a better class of ghost, or if I hope to someday make it habitable for a living person.

I never advertise the vacancy, there's precious little space in my head as it is, and I have my own plans for what to do with that tiny room. I dream of turning it into my own private nook, a place where I can get away from it all. Shut the door, turn the key. Maybe play some music while I'm in there.

I'm not really built for that kind of solitude, though, and so I rarely use the room, rarely remember to check in on it. At some point, I feel the need, ascend the long staircase and discover that I have a resident. I open the door on that quiet space, expecting solitude, and see a ghost standing by the window which overlooks the prison where I keep the fairy-tale dreams of my youth.

Usually, there's an awkward pause, and I'll say to the ghost, I didn't know you were here.

And they respond, "How could I resist such a view?"