Spirit present, spirit past.

She’d been haunting me for a long time now. She never spoke, never moved, just stood at the foot of my bed, staring at me with those dark eyes.

The spirit wasn’t beautiful, like most female ghost seemed to be. In fact, she was somewhat overweight, with dark hair that had obviously been artificially straightened. Clothed in a dress too tight for her ample frame, her single saving grace was that she was young, about eighteen, perhaps nineteen.

What I noticed most about her, was the deep sadness in her eyes, from which tears always seemed about to fall. Her plump hands, bearing cheap rings, wrung themselves constantly, as she tried to convey whatever her message was to me; but I had no interest in listening.

Ever since I’d reached the age of fifty seven, life had turned into one long bout of depression and boredom. My drive, so effusive in my youth, had shrivelled like my face and body. I’d long since forgotten what it felt like to be young, couldn’t imagine it anymore. Procrastination and stagnation had become my middle names.

In the wee small hours of the morning, I’d ponder on my own mortality, especially since the death of my father. I’d also ponder on the passing of my dear mother, many years ago now, when I was just a child; but nowadays her loss was on my mind frequently, as though it’d only happened yesterday.

Here she was again, the spirit of my youth. She held her hands out in supplication, begging, pleading with me to regain my vitality – to live – not just exist.

I turned my face to the wall and closed my eyes.

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One Response to “Spirit present, spirit past.”

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