Jarringly mismatched: a room sans cobwebs, thick layers of dust, or overturned, old furniture, yet besotted with ghosts.
Full of streaming yellow light and fresh air from a large, open window, the room is silently occupied by ghosts, moving ethereally about the space, consumed in their own preoccupation.
My head, to date, is a room full of bright air and laden with the heaviness of ghosts. Its new ideas, new desires, they all continually crowd the space already populated with the ghosts of old memories, old ideas, old places. My head retains ghosts like a bed retains a lifetime of shed skin.
The ghosts are in motion; swirling about, trapped in the bright space. Old hurts have become persistent haunts. Long-ago anger still churns. I find myself missing things that no longer exist. Seeking justice from people who never cared. Wondering, eternally. Wishing, for them, the fleeting glimpse of my life now, the chance to see that I made it, without them.
The ghosts continue to dance, pushed against desires of new sights, a new existence, to be living each day, in every minute, as though it was inexpressibly important. Against the desire to be free of haunting.