It is an impossible task for me to write about ghostsi. I did think about it about conjuring up something fantastc and stunning but I never got up the gumption or the idea of having to write a ghost story. To be honest,the whole idea is implausible because I live with ghosts on a daily basis. I know. It might sound almost cocky or weird or third worldy. But this is not the casse. It is simply so.
Stone walls are ful of ghosts. Hands to be precise and precision of those hands. I see those ghosts every day as I make my way home. Then there is Mary, my neighbour. Dead now. But her presence is always tangible for me. I see her in the fields. On the bend of the road. A big stick in her gnarled hand. Ten cows, speckled with brown russet shades walking ahead of her.
Heather bent and gorse bloom give up more ghosts. There are stories believe me. Faucets coming on the night after my father died. My H afraid to go turn them off. He who never believed in ghosts. There are the fairy forts and those who invade them and the doom that befalls them. There might be a slight presence in the room as you listen to a favourite adagio, a flicker of the candle, a hush. I bow to that.
But to me there is no ghost story as such. To me it is a way of life. Like clouds passing, grey gradually giving way to blue, light and whimsical. It is only passing. All of it. Ghosts are shadows of ourselves. Brief gifts of our existence. Fuschia bloom on a wall that gives a wonderful relief and voices around the dinner table, brief but memorable. Nothing more. And so there is no blog about scary ghosts. I love ghosts. They bring meaning in to the most ordinary of worlds.They are only here to remind us that all is a mere temporary journey. That those other stories are only construed. Nothing more. Life goes on.