A Road Home
A Road Home
He was well aware of the irony of his own existence. He was a ghost. He just wasn’t dead yet. That’s all. He also knew that nobody could see him unless he wanted to be seen. Which he did, but only occasionally.
Sometime he’d try to fit. But nothing ever felt right. So he moved as ghosts move, silently, like a whisper, a muted breeze. All you could hear were the leaves moving, barely even a moan.
On special days—which could never be predicted—he felt like he knew who he was.
“Maybe everyone feels this way.” He thought.
"Maybe?"
His mind moved in color and rhythm. Words were like a dance. Sometimes Fred Astaire. Sometimes James Brown. He could see music, hear images, and colors. He could even see feelings. Which was unpleasant. But it gave him some advantages, which he seldom used.
Even so...he looked at normal people and wondered if he belonged. Somewhere. Anywhere. He’d stare and stare, hoping for an answer, but all he ever found was an empty space. A vacant lot. “No Trespassing!” the sign read. And he knew he’d have to move on.
Maybe, out there somewhere, he’d find himself. Thank God, his field of vision was limited. Because what he couldn’t see might turn out to be an open door. A possible invitation.
A road home.
Wherever that might be.
Mark Magula
He was well aware of the irony of his own existence. He was a ghost. He just wasn’t dead yet. That’s all. He also knew that nobody could see him unless he wanted to be seen. Which he did, but only occasionally.
Sometime he’d try to fit. But nothing ever felt right. So he moved as ghosts move, silently, like a whisper, a muted breeze. All you could hear were the leaves moving, barely even a moan.
On special days—which could never be predicted—he felt like he knew who he was.
“Maybe everyone feels this way.” He thought.
"Maybe?"
His mind moved in color and rhythm. Words were like a dance. Sometimes Fred Astaire. Sometimes James Brown. He could see music, hear images, and colors. He could even see feelings. Which was unpleasant. But it gave him some advantages, which he seldom used.
Even so...he looked at normal people and wondered if he belonged. Somewhere. Anywhere. He’d stare and stare, hoping for an answer, but all he ever found was an empty space. A vacant lot. “No Trespassing!” the sign read. And he knew he’d have to move on.
Maybe, out there somewhere, he’d find himself. Thank God, his field of vision was limited. Because what he couldn’t see might turn out to be an open door. A possible invitation.
A road home.
Wherever that might be.
Mark Magula