Ghosts of Ourselves, The Bitch That is Memory

Ever wonder about ghosts? Real, or not? Fact, fiction, somewhere in between?

I don't really give it much credence myself, other than the odd pang of acceptance or a thoroughly unfounded need to believe. Hell, I love horror movies, and I find there is something in me that at some deep level wants to imagine there are ghosts...while my ridiculously rational side rejects it outright. I am a skeptic by nature. There is always an explanation....or rather, my mind automatically flounders for one. It's silly sometimes. Maybe that's part of the reason i love those films in the first place; they provide fodder for my morbid imagination.

But people, man...people are haunted. Worse than any building or graveyard. More than anything else, people are formed and disformed, twisted and righted, bloodied and bludgeoned by what haunts them. Things that other folks do, or events that unfold around you outside of your control are one thing - but humans are most haunted by themselves. By bad decisions. By missed decisions. By wrong choices; even outcomes of seemingly right ones. Strange. As ultimately lonely beings, the one ghost in our lives that is the most tangible is our own person. I get it. I comprehend that. But what the f*ck is that all about?

You gotta wonder where along the way in our humanity this sort of thing became internalized. I hate things about myself. So do you, I'd be willing to bet. It's like the souls of decisions past stay with us, waiting to be resolved like our glowing friends do in the movies. And, of course, they rarely are resolved. Lost loves never found. Friends, lovers, enemies hurt. Important words not said in time. Missed opportunities. You can forgive others, but how often can you forgive yourself?

I don't know where I was really going with this, other than to say it adds up, whether you can count them all or have forgotten most. They define us. Make us who we are...or just as often, who we aren't. So then, are we just a collection of ghosts? Are our personalities and beings simply years of these strange souls stewed together into some sort of bubbling, frothing witch's brew?

I'd like to think getting older means recognizing these ghosts...those spirits that stay with us like bad omens. If not, then where's the room to grow with a head jammed full of this shit? Ya gotta make space somewhere, and cleaning out those old skeletons seems like a good start to me.

I try to think that, but i don't know if believe it. My mind's grasping for a more rational explanation.