Even the dead decay, so
sometimes I walk along the graves to feel related again. It's not just weathered faces and broken tombs. There's more to it than just fading portraits, as we are all connected on an immaterial level, once we cross the line. Once I cross the line, a nebulous realm of fading souls shows up. I walk up to the weeping willow, where she waits for me. I kiss the nose of a lovely little girl that died by falling from a balcony. Not far from where I live. Years ago though. We walk hand in hand sometimes.
I hear her last screaming as she falls onto the street. But as I walk up to her grave, she takes my hand and whispers in my ear that I shouldn't worry about her anymore.
There’s a sergeant from the English army that was put in a grave carrying the wrong name. I notice his presence. He knows I’m around, but refuses to meet me. It’s a shame, because I’m very grateful for what the English did for my country in those days. I would really like to meet the one that is behind the name on the sergeant’s grave, but up to now he never showed up.
I’m too sensitive. My ability to feel empathy is overseized. There hardly is any material proof of what is happening at the cemetries that I visit so often. Mostly they laughed at me when I try to explain a little. Some refused to see me again. Other said I should join the league of superheroes. I don’t think it’s funny nor is it giving me supernatural powers. I can’t direct them. I can’t use any of the information that is been passed on to me by the dead. I only feel the fear of the balcony girl, and the sudden pain that crushed her tiny life, time and time again as some cascading threat that survived her falling and went on living like an infinite echo. Hitting me every time I look into her eyes and notice her tears.
I also met a dead man that claims being poisened by his wife. He has some very strong arguments to proove it. Unfortunately every material witness disappeared with time. Every trace vanished. On top of that, this man shares a grave with his wife. Maybe I should ask her out, but some of the others say she is ghostless. I haven’t found out yet why some of them are what the other call “ghostless”. I think they only consist of earthly residues. Worn and out of fashion clothes in a suitcase somewhere.
sometimes I walk along the graves to feel related again. It's not just weathered faces and broken tombs. There's more to it than just fading portraits, as we are all connected on an immaterial level, once we cross the line. Once I cross the line, a nebulous realm of fading souls shows up. I walk up to the weeping willow, where she waits for me. I kiss the nose of a lovely little girl that died by falling from a balcony. Not far from where I live. Years ago though. We walk hand in hand sometimes.
I hear her last screaming as she falls onto the street. But as I walk up to her grave, she takes my hand and whispers in my ear that I shouldn't worry about her anymore.
There’s a sergeant from the English army that was put in a grave carrying the wrong name. I notice his presence. He knows I’m around, but refuses to meet me. It’s a shame, because I’m very grateful for what the English did for my country in those days. I would really like to meet the one that is behind the name on the sergeant’s grave, but up to now he never showed up.
I’m too sensitive. My ability to feel empathy is overseized. There hardly is any material proof of what is happening at the cemetries that I visit so often. Mostly they laughed at me when I try to explain a little. Some refused to see me again. Other said I should join the league of superheroes. I don’t think it’s funny nor is it giving me supernatural powers. I can’t direct them. I can’t use any of the information that is been passed on to me by the dead. I only feel the fear of the balcony girl, and the sudden pain that crushed her tiny life, time and time again as some cascading threat that survived her falling and went on living like an infinite echo. Hitting me every time I look into her eyes and notice her tears.
I also met a dead man that claims being poisened by his wife. He has some very strong arguments to proove it. Unfortunately every material witness disappeared with time. Every trace vanished. On top of that, this man shares a grave with his wife. Maybe I should ask her out, but some of the others say she is ghostless. I haven’t found out yet why some of them are what the other call “ghostless”. I think they only consist of earthly residues. Worn and out of fashion clothes in a suitcase somewhere.
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