Haunted House


I dreamed a memory. I was looking out over golden hills that lay like pregnant bellies of earth sunning themselves in a perfect cerulean blue that sweeps across the sky like a brush, butter-cup blot of sunshine– the world seemed technicolor. And there I stood, my fourteen year old self; hair flapping in the wind like a flag of my disposition– the golden willowy reeds reaching for the sky in whispy appendages mimicking my stray strands. This was a time in my life when I felt on the cusp, on the precipice, of something and my heart was the entire world but small as a handkerchief and ready to bleed life.

I remember looking into those hills, into that wild blue yonder, and feeling completely self-aware. Have you ever had that moment? That moment when you realize your whole life has been a fog of learning routines and traditions and you are slowly turning into a human being, an empathetic soul, despite the rigid standardness of it all. And bam! there you are. You are timid with meeting at first; the new shyness of someone whose always been there but you just became aware of. You start to see everything in democracies; how everything is connected. You start to realize there is a difference between what the world says you should want and what you really want.

Anyway, I am dreamed this memory into existence. It felt so real; fourteen and free of the woes of the heart. I’d almost forgot what it feels like to have a heart not hollowed like empty bones to house ghosts. My god, how it used to beat like a mumuration of starlings. There my fourteen year old self stood, looking into that perfect cerulean sky and feeling how connected I am to everything. An electrical storm starts forming like a battalion of black hearts on the horizon. This is where memory deviates from reality; where past and present can’t exist without interference. The storm is gathering. Thunder fills the folds of those hills like a cavalry march of memory minute-men; bang! bang! And then lightening strikes. The whole field catches fire. It is funny how a field burns like a brittle old house; entirely consumed.

This is when I wake up. A phoenix.

Anyway, I only mention this because I wish I could have known you then. Before the ghosts, before the unsettled foundation, before the creaks in the night.


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