If I were a ghost–free from human interaction–I would be humanity’s shadow. The silent, unseen specter observing the death march of mankind. Sympathetic yet helpless. Frightened yet curious. Loving yet alone. Lusting yet ignored. Friendly yet dismissed. Only a mere thought separating myself from human, yet the thought grows into an unbreachable chasm when confronted by faith. I am the obscured tabby cat following you though life. You know I am there, but you don’t believe.
If I were a ghost–free from society’s bias–I would roam the hallways of both the luxurious and the needy. Every word, spoken or insinuated, would not escape my passive vision. When the rich and comfortable fell asleep, I would hover by their bedside to spectate dreams of stress and fear. When the poor and miserable fell asleep, I would hover over their form to spectate dreams of fantasy and delight. I would watch the birth of a child, the beginning of a business, the construction of a home, the dispute of a marriage, the suicide of a white collar, and the home left empty for spirits like myself to roam. I would follow the child from humble beginnings to mediocre opportunity, from financial scraping to misguided love, from cold relationship to frozen solitary, and finally from blue collar to wit’s end.
If I were a ghost–free from time’s grasp–I would visit the writers of the past. Poets, novelists, essayists, historians, journalists….none would escape my haunting presence. With intangible hands I would grasp their abstract thoughts, admiring the very essence of inspiration. With invisible eyes I would study their human actions, espying the mundane from the bizarre. With cold tongue and mute voice I would recite their unwritten words, mourning over the great works lost to mankind. And with pale lips I would smile as they are laid in a coffin, for joy at knowing them and for sorrow at my futile knowledge.
If I were a ghost–free from peer pressure–I would feign the life of my dreams. Every bell-tower would be my home, for I love the bitter-sweet toll of a bell. Every thanksgiving would be my kitchen, for I love the plenty and harmony of November. Every cove would be my bath, for I love the romantic aura of the ocean. When I fell in a rustic mood the open meadow would be my bed, shared by the dancing daisies and marigolds. For solitude I would escape to the frozen mountain top, or the abyssal ocean floor. If I longed for company I need look no further than the kindred spirits inside every asylum. When troubled by a romantic fit, every lonely bridge would be my solace. When zealous for adversity I would roam the battlefields of history; and when longing for peace I would watch the children sleep on Christmas Eve.
When I am a ghost–I will watch you read this and smile. Because you took the time to understand another.