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We live in a house without ghosts or previous tenants. No one has died or sold their soul here, and no one has done unspeakable things behind closed doors here. No one has endured flaming words, burning skin, kicks and shoves or broken bones here. There are no spun dust dead cells come alive as night prowl swirlings here, and no manifestations of such. No leftover lives here, nothing left behind here. only peace and quiet here. But not back there when I lived with her before I lived here with you. Back there she said I went crazy when the neighbors asked why I slept on the porch there. It would have been crazier had I slept inside the house there. What happened there was worse than the worst thing imaginable. I would forever be changed by what happened there. She let evil enter there from across the globe when mother Russia sent it in the suitcase of a boy. When I met you I knew my porch sleeping days were over, whether here or there, quite frankly anywhere. Our first house was 50 years old yet we were only the second owners. Family must have mattered there. The ghost was different there, not frightening, not angry, more nostalgic, he used to sit out there on the porch in my chair at night, sit there looking sad, like he missed the place. He didn’t mind us being there and I never felt threatened there. On many occasions he knew that I knew he was there, but he wouldn’t engage. I felt sorry for him, sitting out there all alone. For a short while we lived in a house north of town. We lived there before we lived here. The ghosts there were more like what you’d expect from ghosts. First it was the hogs in the attic followed by the children in the night, it wasn’t unsafe it just didn’t feel right there. Someone wasn’t happy there, so we left there and came here and built this house of love. Now we live where there are no ghosts, at least not in the house. Instead the history in my head is what haunts me. To move it out, to delete it would mean to be dead or maybe lobotomized, so no thank you I think I’ll learn to live with these ghosts. These that aren’t there, or here, they still are. My father is 85 and tells me that they prey on your weakness when you get older. He cannot even speak of them for fear of being institutionalized or put away, or deemed insane, but I believe him when he tells me that they come to him at night, and although he cannot see them they sit on his bed and remind him of all the mistakes he has made in his lifetime. I look at him and I can see his pain. My ghosts tell me its what I have to look forward to.
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Aug 27, 2017
Aug 27, 2017 at 5:23 PM UTC
Here, There, These
We live in a house without ghosts or previous tenants. No one has died or sold their soul here, and no one has done unspeakable things behind closed doors here. No one has endured flaming words, burning skin, kicks and shoves or broken bones here. There are no spun dust dead cells come alive as night prowl swirlings here, and no manifestations of such. No leftover lives here, nothing left behind here. only peace and quiet here. But not back there when I lived with her before I lived here with you. Back there she said I went crazy when the neighbors asked why I slept on the porch there. It would have been crazier had I slept inside the house there. What happened there was worse than the worst thing imaginable. I would forever be changed by what happened there. She let evil enter there from across the globe when mother Russia sent it in the suitcase of a boy. When I met you I knew my porch sleeping days were over, whether here or there, quite frankly anywhere. Our first house was 50 years old yet we were only the second owners. Family must have mattered there. The ghost was different there, not frightening, not angry, more nostalgic, he used to sit out there on the porch in my chair at night, sit there looking sad, like he missed the place. He didn’t mind us being there and I never felt threatened there. On many occasions he knew that I knew he was there, but he wouldn’t engage. I felt sorry for him, sitting out there all alone. For a short while we lived in a house north of town. We lived there before we lived here. The ghosts there were more like what you’d expect from ghosts. First it was the hogs in the attic followed by the children in the night, it wasn’t unsafe it just didn’t feel right there. Someone wasn’t happy there, so we left there and came here and built this house of love. Now we live where there are no ghosts, at least not in the house. Instead the history in my head is what haunts me. To move it out, to delete it would mean to be dead or maybe lobotomized, so no thank you I think I’ll learn to live with these ghosts. These that aren’t there, or here, they still are. My father is 85 and tells me that they prey on your weakness when you get older. He cannot even speak of them for fear of being institutionalized or put away, or deemed insane, but I believe him when he tells me that they come to him at night, and although he cannot see them they sit on his bed and remind him of all the mistakes he has made in his lifetime. I look at him and I can see his pain. My ghosts tell me its what I have to look forward to.
v_V_v
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v_V_v
62/M/American
Aug 27, 2017
Aug 27, 2017 at 5:23 PM UTC
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