I am a ghost. I glide through the world on soft ghostly feet. I drift here and there, moved by the will of others. I have none of my own.
I am a ghost.
I haunt a studio in the attic. As a good ghost should.
I spent time. I wake, I eat, I move. I talk.
I am visible still, not yet transparent, but ask me about life and there will be nothing. There is no drawing, no painting, no writing. Well, none of any consequence at least. A stick now and then hardly counts.
There is no work.
I am a ghost. I do not live – I exist.
Should I live again, I wonder. Should I make an effort, create a life? But … how? What should I do?
How does one live these days? What does one do in life? What is the thing these days? What does a life consists of?
I do not know and the effort required to find that out is more than a ghost can handle, and a life that would move along lines set by others feels scary, oppressive and uncomfortable, and I do not want to drift towards it until … oh, here it is – a little bit of Pausha still clinging, holding on to the trailing gray draperies…
of the ghost.
“You don’t need to do what you should” it says,
“you only need to do what you want.”
