A definition for something that does not exist
Ghosts are the definition of something that does not exist. Ghosts would not like me saying this, but ghosts don’t like to define themselves either.
Ghosts are the thing made of smoke and mirrors. Ghosts are the thing that can hover and move through you and into you like a bad cold until you are too congested to breathe. Ghosts are the thing that reflect your sickness back onto you, not satisfied with knowing you can just feel it. Ghosts are the chill that starts in your arms and moves to your spine to shake you through your blankets; or the fever that comes during sleep, saturating your dreams into waking hallucinations and pounding muscles with your deepest aches.
Ghosts are the voice left dancing with the stars after you crawl into bed. Ghosts are the ones who know how to speak into that place between waking and sleep, to command the lecture hall inside your mind. Ghosts are the loan applications due, the margins of the quarterly report, the pastel blue and grey bubble candle for your best friend’s birthday still in your cart on Etsy. Ghosts are the future having already past as final as the fates cut the thread. Ghosts are the past suing the present and arguing their case in court that “over” is just a phase.
Ghosts are the thing that stays, the old furniture with dust that filters through the rays of sun in the daytime and settles on the hardwood as a horror film in the moonlight. Ghosts are torn plush pink baby blankets and kindergarten crafts on shedding construction paper pieces. Ghosts are the artifacts and antiques of a life lived cheaply, a life in Teen Vogues, math tests, TJMaxx checkout aisle mugs and HomeGoods credit card statements; a life beloved but decaying before it even begins.
Ghosts are the smell of old perfume, of vape juice mixed with the autumn night, of saliva and sweat mixing. Ghosts are the acrid taste of alcohol as it comes back up, and remembering the taste of Capri Sun and High C Orange. Ghosts are the salt and grease from your fries coating the fingers, the ketchup dripping from McDoubles and both staining the steering wheel. Ghosts are the aroma of fresh stuffing and turkey as they float through the air on Thanksgiving. Ghosts are the churning in the stomach, the way the body works together to consume but is never really able to keep. Ghosts love vampires for that exact reason — their insatiable hunger, shared.
Ghosts are also no smell or taste at all, the anticipation and fear of a world navigated without memory. Ghosts are the edge of amnesia, an unknown known all-encompassing yet still not yet real. Ghosts are the flat earth, a cliff on the edge of our realm and into a living void.
Ghosts know how to manipulate a thesaurus, but can’t figure out where to find a dictionary. To find a synonym for “haunting,” to look for a definition of “spirit” is to fall into their trap. Ghosts are writers without a pen and paper, an artist without a brush, paint, and canvas, and a musician without sheet music and an instrument. Ghosts contain multitudes as both the muse and writer’s block. Ghosts are comedians of the cemetery, scientists of the living, and coders of father time. Ghosts study but have no due dates.
Ghosts are the thing that exists.
