my weighty ghosts.

I’m tired.

I’m tired in different ways.

And I’m still angry, on and off, most days. I live quietly. I clean my own dishes. I am aware of the volume of the music I play in my room. I am overly thankful towards people who take care of me. Whether that is a friend or the cashier at Taco Bell. I am apologetic if I seem to take more than I require.

I think I’m angry that I have to take a few steps back from where I want to be.

I was excited that I was moving into a life that felt good with my personality. Sorta quiet. Settled. In love. Hopeful. Challenging. Meaningful. Comfortable. Ah yes, comfortable. The thing I used to be against. Thinking God didn’t want me to be comfortable. That being comfortable meant you were abandoning the poor and downtrodden. Maybe I am. Shit, I know I am. (Am I?)

But what am I to do.

I cook for people.

I do dishes. I mop floors.

I try to be good. I know I am good. I am light, though I am filled with them weighty ghosts.

There are times when living in community is nice. Dinner, being one. Being near another person, in all its simplicity is nice.

Having to fight to get rid of the “pee rug” that sits near the toilet. Those things should never exist. Men, you know better.

But that is what my life is, about now. A far, far cry from anything horrible, I realize.

Don’t get me started on the state of things. I feel so much tension in this world. The state of our government and planet is enough to make me sink to my knees, though I do too much of that these days.

I feel bad, sometimes. For my roommate whose room is close. Some mornings, I sit in this big brown chair and laugh, other times, I am overwhelmed and sniffling and babbling. I must seem like a train wreck. But I think, deep down, I am okay.

There is a great purpose within. I don’t know what I’ll be doing. I am not promised anything. What I do have, is some good people in my life. The ones that have stuck around to lift me up, that is.

I suppose you reap what you sow, anyhow. Maybe it’s my fault. So be it.

And Hemingway said to write clear and hard about what hurts.

So today, this is what hurts.


I realize this might seem vulnerable. In fact, it is. I am aware that this is not the kind of person I used to be. When you thought you had me pinned down with words like, “quiet and shy and sweet”.

That’s okay. You were calling it as you saw it. I am aware the world can see these words, if they want. I’ve been doing this for a long time. So it shouldn’t be a shock to anyone.

But as I write this, my eyes are heavy, and I’ll be hefting myself onto my bed, that still concaves on either side. I guess that is one of my ghosts.

It is okay, though.

It is there to remind me of a presence,

of someone I once knew.




3 responses to “my weighty ghosts.”

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