The Haunting of Toby

I have gained an hour's sleep only to lose countless more to these hauntings.

Name:
Location: Northeast, United States

I live in a haunted house with one dog, one man, and many, many, restless souls. I am wandering through the halls of academia trying to figure out what to do with the degree I have and what one I want to work towards next. Mostly I just like the wandering.

Thursday, December 01, 2005

Ghost Stories

The winds of late fall stir the ghosts of old stories back into prose. Tales that came to The End appear again in the mist of visible breath while walking home in the evening. The morning frost makes blood run cold, what was the conclusion? The branch work of trees is laid bare, the hidden appears once again.

We are nothing less than all of our stories, whether leaf cloaked in Spring iridescence, or reflecting sunshine like the petals of sun obsessed flowers, or somber under the placid gray of winter. Here, on the cusp of what we were and that we will become, disembodied pieces of our selves revisit and are revisited. The first snow flakes remind us of what will be. We never read a story the same way twice. We are never the same always, each year brings a ring of growth that echoes through what was.

I have gained one hour's sleep only to lose countless more to these hauntings. All things are slowing except my imagination. This moment, after the final distraction of burning color and the rich earthy aroma of falling has passed, is a precious one, for all of its supernatural tension. I will tell the story again, I want to. Is there any other way to deal with a ghost? This time it will embody all the growth, the work, of a year. We really are all of our stories, and stories never die. They linger.

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