Seeing Ghosts

It comes then as a rather unwelcome irony that the root of it all, the depression, the sadness, the void, the voices, the inability to heal, the unwillingness to create, the lengthening darkness, the dimming of the days, the willowed desire for the unattainable and your stepping away from all love freely given comes from one place- one moment- one moment in time. It had been an accident almost completely unnoticed in the heat of the moment; a loosened tooth laughed at over after a shower long enough and hot enough to wash away the sin. The book ends, his bleeding mouth and her split lip, a tattooed scar to match where her teeth drew her own blood. A head snapping back in dramatic over reaction to a wanted violence, a momentary pain, a blurring of vision, an inspiring force that put your hand to her throat and another in her hair bringing you to a place of control you’ve never been to before but both of you would never be able to avoid again.

It had been a little accident that made you TAKE her. A little accident. A chemical imbalance. A faulty neuron jarred into spontaneous life exerting an unexpected chemical control over your thoughts and abilities and dreams. This then is the biochemical wet dream; the idea that there are no ghosts, no spirit, no illusion of the soul. There are only chemicals burning and neurons firing in patterns too complex to be anything but random or God making up everything of who we are.

It would be easier wouldn’t it.

It would be easier to blame in all on the brain.

He looks at the girl who will not move and has not moved.

She doesn’t blink.

She doesn’t answer.

She doesn’t breathe.

He touches her face, and blinks his eyes. With a drawn breath and a dark mind he looks up. He wills himself to see the ghosts and he wills himself to feel a soul.