Something to Say, Something to Find

“Grief, I’ve learned, is really just love. It’s all the love you want to give, but cannot. All that unspent love gathers up in the corners of your eyes, the lump in your throat, and in that hollow part of your chest. Grief is just love with no place to go”

–Jamie Anderson

It has been said that the best ghost stories are the ones written with psychological twists and unexpected turns. I suppose that means the ghost story I am going to share isn’t a good one. In fact, it seems more of a love story than a ghost story at all. And yet, despite that, it is the most tangible evidence that I have ever experienced of there being proof of afterlife. More so than anything else I’ve witnessed on this earth, and I say that having previously lived in a very psychically active house. Perhaps this is why it has taken me over two years to finally share this story. As odd as it is, it is every bit the truth of what happened that night, and for that reason I have struggled with how to write it. There is much justice that I must serve to this ghost story in its first retelling since it happened.

So no, this tale won’t be full of eerie moans and footsteps. There will be no things that go bump in the night. Instead, this is a story of life and death, of love and grief. Of the people left behind, and those who didn’t want to leave. The proof of love everlasting and how we never truly leave the ones we love. And I can’t believe that I am saying this, but I believe that Marvel’s Vision said it best when he stated: “What is grief, if not love persevering?”

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Time is a circle, the snake eats its tail.

We come and go in cycles, souls bound to a wheel that not many seem to see. The same patterns repeat over and over in micro and macro. I find myself caught both in the wheel and outside of it, desperate to get off. To stop the churning and circling fate that seems to bind me to repeat the same mistakes. To cause the same hurts. I try to tear my body from the ropes that lash me there but it just doesn’t work. On some days I wish I could go back to oblivion and peace, not knowing of the wheel. But it’s there all the same now, what is seen is not unseen. And once the teacup is shattered, there’s no putting it back together, not as the same cup it once was. Maybe that’s okay, as long as it holds water?

There is no such destruction as that which is wrought in the name of love.

And I have held life and death in my hands, and chosen both paths out of love and mercy.

But both paths still lead to the same outcome.

I fight against the wheel and it ignores each pull and tug and scream. I want to get off more than anything, and perhaps one day I will. All I can do now is to keep up the fight for better days, like I’ve done time and time again. Maybe that cup still holds water.

Time is a circle, the snake eats its tail.