Me, Myself and the Ghost

And you lose interest. You just loose it the way you’d lose a bet. So unexpected, so simple, so fast, faster than you’ve ever thought.

And then you’d lose patience and the world becomes a huge competition with no breaks or timeouts. You have to always move on and never stop. Objects lose their colors, their opaqueness and their attractiveness. Everything around you becomes thin air.

And then you’d lose your senses. Gradually, of course. You’d lose taste, and all foods become to you nothing but dirt. Dirt that you have to stuff in in order to survive.

And then you lose hope and darkness spills over the edges of your consciousness. Light bulbs become instruments to see the objects that are now gone and the lifeless faces of humans around you. The sun, shining so bright into your eyes, just blinds you. The beauty of the universe becomes a fact, and all poetics would be gone.

And then you’d lose people you thought you might keep. And you’re only companion would be yourself. You’ll be telling yourself about all your problems. You would become your very own best friend. You would lie to yourself to convince yourself you’re fine when you’re obviously not. You would become so immersed deep into yourself that at any gathering you’d be absorbed into your own bubble, deep into the never-ending conversation with your mind. People’s conversations would become senseless and absurd.

Since you’ve lost patience and hope and interest and contacts, you become nothing but an ignorant, careless soul. The artist in you is dead. The thinker is dead. And the magician, as well, is dead.

Your heart loses its passion, your soul simply breaks down and you become dehumanized. A robot you must think? But I would think I’ve became a ghost. My very own ghost. Alive.



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