Ghost friend:
I know you didn' t mean to make me feel bad. On the one hand you love me. Maybe because of the small amount of friends I have, I value you much more than you do me.
If I look for you you answer me, but you miraculously ask me questions. If I make you plastic, you' re polite, although you rarely take me into account. If I' m with you you make me feel good, but I' ve never heard you ask for me. Breaking barriers with me scares you, like me with anyone else.
I call you a ghost because I don' t really know if you exist. There' s little evidence to the contrary. I' d like to think so, though.
Somewhere in your mind I must be. Maybe in one of the less sought after parts, or explored in your subconscious, but there, clinging to that corner, I must lie down, clinging to you. That gives me hope.
It would be very macabre of you to show me your happiness because you know that I am watching you, in the distance, like an owl in a fern. To make me feel miserable while I see you in my saddle, with lakes in my eyes, regretting my short ability to draw with others.
I' ve tried to express myself, you know. I need a push. I' m both fire and ice.
I don' t want to look for you, but I know that if I don' t, my constant doubts will only be bigger.
That' s why watching you think of me, even if it was only in my imagination, comforts me.
Not every sunrise and sunset. Not at lunchtime or when you see something unusual. Not those dead hours at work. Even when you see people who know me. But yes when, after a long discussion with your best friends or partner, you mention me, someday anyone, for whatever reason. So I' ll know of my existence.
Because sometimes I think I' m just a spirit.
Maybe it' s not you, ghost friend, the illusion. It' s probably me.
