Ghost

Untitled work, 1979 by Francesca Woodman

As my departure drew near, the once comforting elements of my surroundings began to feel uncomfortably prickly. The lumpy old mattress on which I used to find solace became a source of restlessness, the familiar voices of friends and family transformed into grating white noise, and even the scent of petrichor from the moistened earth became nauseating. I sought solace in alcohol to numb my senses, but it provided no relief. I felt like a ghost trapped in a vacuum of suburban banality, disconnected from myself and those around me. No one wanted to be in the presence of a ghost being pulled towards an unreachable place. Those who dared to come close risked being scorched by the flames of my anxiety.

Then June arrived, and I embarked on a journey of walking through fire. To alleviate my restlessness, I actively avoided familiar sensations and sought out the unfamiliar. I immersed myself in writing, ventured out more, and even devoted time to learning new languages I would soon be using. Yet, amidst it all, I still longed for someone to anchor me, someone to remind me of the importance of being physically grounded in the here and now.

And that someone came into my life. He held me close, even in our sleep, as our warm bodies bridged the gap in the cold space between us. I would sometimes reach out and rest my hand on his chest, feeling the strong, rapid vibrations of his heart resonating within me as if it were my own. Our synchronized breathing and beating hearts lulled me into a deep slumber.

After months of feeling alienated and restless, I finally found solace in sleep. Even in the depths of my slumber, I could faintly hear his voice murmuring something in my ear, though the words eluded my conscious understanding. Perhaps it was just a dream, but it provided a sense of comfort and reassurance that I desperately craved.