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amulThere is a ghost of a choice, humming Ego Likeness's I Live On What's Left. What disturbs me is that she's such a completely manifested visual hallucination. I see her walking around corners, sitting on my couch and putting a book down as she looks up at me.
Occasionally, I can hear her whisper, It's a bad idea, and you know it.
But I try not to listen to her, this timid ghost (who did I last call that?) who is grilling cheese sandwiches when I get another glass of water. I try not to think about implications as I pick an outfit to wear out tonight.
It's the tune she's humming that really makes my ears bleed. "I reach for the quiet," that's the chorus line, followed by the song title.
It is not my problem, not my place, it's my mantra. I say it to the empty room, trying to drown out the gentle tune. Not my problem, not my place to offer.
I mean, there's no guarantee that she would even accept, but I can picture it. Not in some vague, dreamy way that's written about in books and blogs. When I say I can picture it, I mean that I've walked past the pictures and seen them shift into snapshots of the future. My eyes are actually looking at these things that are not there, with the clarity and precision I've been training into myself.
Someone told me a few weeks ago, "It's a really shitty time, being a good toilet."
I shouldn't even offer. I know it, and the ghost of this choice knows it, too. And every time I think, "No," she stops humming.
She stops humming, and stares wordlessly at me, a hand on her swollen belly.
Occasionally, I can hear her whisper, It's a bad idea, and you know it.
But I try not to listen to her, this timid ghost (who did I last call that?) who is grilling cheese sandwiches when I get another glass of water. I try not to think about implications as I pick an outfit to wear out tonight.
It's the tune she's humming that really makes my ears bleed. "I reach for the quiet," that's the chorus line, followed by the song title.
It is not my problem, not my place, it's my mantra. I say it to the empty room, trying to drown out the gentle tune. Not my problem, not my place to offer.
I mean, there's no guarantee that she would even accept, but I can picture it. Not in some vague, dreamy way that's written about in books and blogs. When I say I can picture it, I mean that I've walked past the pictures and seen them shift into snapshots of the future. My eyes are actually looking at these things that are not there, with the clarity and precision I've been training into myself.
Someone told me a few weeks ago, "It's a really shitty time, being a good toilet."
I shouldn't even offer. I know it, and the ghost of this choice knows it, too. And every time I think, "No," she stops humming.
She stops humming, and stares wordlessly at me, a hand on her swollen belly.
