My house is full of ghosts.
The t-shirt I wore on New Year’s Eve. The sandals I got in the airport in Berlin on a long trip home. The record player I bought at a thrift shop in Missouri. The necklace I’m wearing.
These aren’t just items I’ve collected over time. These are physical evidence of who I once was and where I once was and how I once felt. These are tablets covered in hieroglyphics that only I can read.
When the lights go out at night, the “me” that existed a long time ago rises and pays a visit. As I lay in bed and watch the barely visible spin of the ceiling fan, I can see their visages walking towards me. My house is full of ghosts.
They want to live again. They want to remind me of who I was. No matter how much I want to forget them, they know they already live inside me. These ghosts, these are just reminders. I’m not scared of them. I’m scared of me. I’m scared I’ll let them in and that the person who I was will overcome the person I am. My house is full of ghosts.
And I try and close my eyes but I feel the presence of a million of me. They stare at me, wondering which of them I will allow in. Which ones will I acknowledge?
I cannot ignore the ghosts. I fear them. They remind me that I can’t run from my past.
I am full of ghosts.