I am a Ghost.
I inhabit the same space as you but I am not really here.
I am irrelevant.
You are oblivious to my presence;
I am less valid than you and therefore easy to dismiss as unimportant.
You fear my existence;
afraid that I will cause you to fade just as I did, until you too cease to be real.
You do not wish to be a ghost like me.
My opinions mean nothing to you.
I have no right to determine what happens to me.
How can I have rights if I do not exist?
Ghosts are an abhorrence of nature, they have no rights at all.
Decisions about the world I inhabit are all made by others.
Help is what you are willing to give, not what I actually need.
I must be grateful for anything you offer even if it is useless or detrimental;
if I reject a worthless offer, I prove that I am undeserving of your help and forfeit my entitlement to anything else.
When I speak, you do not hear what I say:
you translate my words into whatever you expect to hear.
You are deaf to the truth.
When you look at me, you do not see what is really there:
I am obscured by an illusion conjoured from your own assumptions.
You see only what you choose to see.
You are blind to the truth.
If you speak of me at all, it is of somebody long-absent and completely unmissed.
You have no regard for my feelings, for how can ghosts feel?
Your words are hurtful.
If I disappeared, you would be glad.
It would ease your own trouble and your conscience wouldn’t prick you anymore.
Though I scream, and shout, and beg, and cry, willing you to hear me, my words pass harmlessly, dissipate unnoticed.
But I am determined that someday, somehow, somewhere, someway, I will regain once more my corporeal form;
I will be human again.
Not just real as I was before, but more real than I have ever been (than you could ever hope to be) because I have walked the empty space between two worlds and have survived.
Against all the odds, I live.
Journal Entry: 2007