“Ghosting” often connotes a haunting presence leaving a fleeting mark. It is a presence felt by the skin—a whisper of movement across the hairs, a breath of chill.
Of what are the things that haunt us?
Some are of the past, of the unreliable memories remembered by equally unreliable selves. Others are of the present, of the banality in the everyday. The mundane structures built on remnants of before, objects that remind us of what once was.
For others still, they are of the seemingly insignificant things: a passing word, a brush of the hand, childhood moments of cruelty and play. From these insignificant sins we reel, we atone. Their effects on us un-proportional to the magnitude of their happening.
Perhaps, to be haunted is the corollary of existence. To be haunted is to be of the flesh; to be of muscle and synapses, to bear the burden of an imperfect body and an equally imperfect, but expansive mind. It is to be riddled with invisible, internal ills, of tremors and strange weaknesses. At the same time, it is to be of limitless thought and possibility. It is to build on works of those who have come before us; to expand and condense their efforts and actions, their knowledge and mistakes.
In time, the weight of the memories, the actions, the words, the flesh, take its toll. We leave as we have arrived: a moment of blood and guts, a second of searing pain, a point of release. We move through the rooms of time, from the void to life, and back.
We are haunted and haunting. We arrive, we wait, we leave. We are but ghosts. We are but the brief visitors in this world.
– JC Rosette
