We used to listen to ghost stories. .
They were written in frail paper to assure a gentle embrace. They were just words, written. Compressed inscriptions that can never harm. Especially, that we have mighty action figures and a lego house.
Yes, we became cocky. We listened anyway, expecting paper cuts and not goosebumps. We forgot we form worlds that cause fairytales. And we need them to distract us from dripping blood or remind us of a scintillating star that tuck us at night.
Now, reading. We're surprised that spirits never hold wands. Or grant wishes. Not even a big bad wolf we can shoo. They just lurk in their most terrifying, hoping, sometime, somewhere, you are alone and you will see.
Halfway in the book, we held hands. Stories about headless corpses and empty eyesockets creeped inside our skulls.
It's time to meet 'fear' and the song about glowing stars in our rooms can't twinkle the lady in her burial dress in the corner. .
Unless, we stay together.
Stay and we can finish the book.
We braved it till the end. We listened as apparitions became photographs we'd rather burn. We realized that it's sadness, grief then emptiness that haunt people. Unfinished sand castles and the waves that snatched it's chance to be remembered, or to be built again .
We vowed to hold hands until the book ended.
We're safe this way.
Or maybe, we're still shivering?
This time, in distant, cold afternoon
The eerie silence in our lego house
are from action figures,
random shit this Jan 21.
not sure what was that.
Photo: Robert Heiser via Unsplash